Dude, Were's My Apocalypse?
by Lampito
Summary: Yes, 'were' - as a wise man said, it's a pune, or play on words. By popular demand, the story of what the Were!chesters did when some bastard decided to crank up the Apocalypse (again). It's not Lucifer (too busy eating pasta) or Michael (too busy posing for magazine covers), but Crowley has sought political asylum. And Chuck just wants to brew beer, is that so much to ask?
1. Chapter 1

This plot bunny is an offshoot of 'A Shaggy Dog Story', and is, I believe, the fault of the people who pestered me for another AU - or an AU AU, really - story about the potential branch of history where the Winchesters decided to stay Old North werewolves, and then went on to save the world from An Apocalypse (not necessarily The Apocalypse).

As if that wasn't bad enough, the little orphaned plot bunny that started off as an 'Escapee From The Plot Bunny Farm' has clearly been eating steroid-laced carrots, because it's determined to turn into a fully fledged story. So, with the encouragement of The Denizens of the Jimiverse, I'm splitting it off to have its own story, so I'll pull the three chapters out of the orphans pen, and shove 'em in here.

If you've already read the first couple of chapters, you know it as...

**DUDE, WERE'S MY APOCALYPSE?**

They're not mine. It's rated T. The word idjit will be used repeatedly. I blame the Denizens, those relentless breeders of plot bunnies who fit them with little life jackets, GPS devices and outboard motors, and send them Down Here. Either that, or they're being delivered by UAVs.

* * *

** Chapter One**

Kerryn's hands tightened on the wheel when she saw how the trees crowded right to the edge of the rutted road. She could've laughed at her reaction; just a couple of years ago, she would've been smiling about how picturesque and peaceful the scene was, but these days, all she could think about was just how effective the cover would be if somebody wanted to lay an ambush.

Of course, if the information was good, she would be expecting some sort of a reception. If the information was good. It was always possible that somebody was simply spreading word of a place of refuge in order to send desperate people into the arms of predators of a completely human kind – they'd encountered land pirates before – but, well, that was the key, wasn't it. Desperate people. The small convoy of bewildered and traumatised ordinary people that she'd ended up leading were at the end of their rope. The government quarantine measures had been wretchedly ineffective, first world supply chains had broken down, utilities had failed – whoever said that civilisation was only nine meals away from anarchy had been an optimist, she thought wryly.

Six vehicles, sixteen desperate people. And two dogs who thought they were people. (If she was honest, the people thought they were people, really.) Fewer than they'd set out with. It just wasn't... _fair,_ she raged inwardly. Fate, Karma, Destiny, didn't they watch cable? Didn't they know that when flesh-eating zombies took over the world, survivors were supposed to get a capable sheriff as a leader, and a wise old vet who was also a farmer to act as his conscience, and a geek who could fix things and figure things out, and a real rough-diamond kind-of-hot-if-he-would-just-have-a-bath redneck who could shoot anything with his crossbow and find or hunt food where you'd think there was nothing to be had? They weren't _supposed_ to get an overweight molecular biologist with glasses who had nearly brained herself the first time she fired a gun, after having to work it out for herself, and was still such a lousy shot that she felt constantly guilty for wasting ammunition, and who threw up (twice) the first time she had to work out how to get meat off a deer carcass...

Her stomach turned over at the memory. She'd clipped it with the car, and the poor thing had broken a leg, so she'd had to shoot it, and her son and her dog had looked at her hungrily, so she'd taken the biggest knife she'd had with them, and it had all reminded her too much of the gush of gore that morning when their neighbour had burst into the kitchen and sunk his teeth into her husband's neck, and started eating him, and it was only the fact that the dog pulled him down and tore out his throat until his head practically came off that saved her and Todd from the same fate...

As if sensing her worry, Lottie hung her big, earnest head over Kerryn's shoulder from the back seat, and whumphed comfortingly. Kerryn couldn't help but smile.

"They never had a dog as awesome as you, did they?" she raised a hand to scratch Lottie's ears, "I bet more of 'em would've made it through to season fifteen if they'd had a dog like you."

Desperate people. Desperate, and ordinary. They'd encountered enclaves before, fortified farms or small villages or gatherings, but had been turned away when they weren't deemed useful enough. Any of you folks a doctor, a dentist? Pharmacist, maybe, or a paramedic, even a vet? Butcher? Gunsmith? Carpenter, bricklayer? Mechanic? No, sorry, we can't take you, you're just dead weight. Teacher? Our kids don't need to learn math, they need to learn to raise food. Retired electrical engineer? Sorry, not taking anybody over sixty-five, you're a liability. Geologist? What, you can point out hills to us? Molecular biologist? What the hell is that? What the fuck would we do with a molecular biologist, lady? Dogs? We got no use for pets here, lady, we got enough trouble feeding ourselves, you come in, you surrender your dogs. We'll feed 'em to the working dogs, probably, meat is at a premium, they're not properly fed as it is.

The info _had _to be good, she thought fiercely, her glance falling on the gun with which she had such a hate-hate relationship (nobody had laughed when she claimed it had bitten her), they had to find a place, somewhere where they could stop wandering, running.

As if in response to her thoughts, three clearly armed figures stepped out of those picturesque trees. One of them had a Rottweiler at heel. Kerryn put her most reassuring smile on, and turned to Todd.

"Looks like we've found them, huh?" she smiled to the nine-year-old. "And look, they've got a dog just like Lottie!" Todd didn't reply. Todd hadn't really said anything since he watched his father being torn apart and _eaten_ before him. Occasionally he would whisper to Lottie after dark, but he never said a word to anybody with two legs.

One person – a man, with the dog – lowered his weapon and approached the ramshackle group of vehicles. In her mirrors she could see that, despite her constant reminders that it probably wasn't a good idea, they bunched up, like a herd crowding together for safety. She just hoped they had the sense to keep the engines running, although if they had to back up in a hurry, she just prayed that Kenny would get it right – there hadn't been gas to spare for him to practise except on the road, and he didn't get a lot of time in reverse.

Kerryn rolled down the window, and put on her friendliest smile. "Hi!' she called.

"Hey there," the man – he bent down to the window, and she saw that he was in fact a teenager, with scruffy dark blonde hair and a dusting of freckles that spoke of time spent outdoors. When he spotted Lottie, his face broke into a grin. "Hey, girl!" he enthused.

To Kerryn's astonishment, Lottie, who had become wary of strangers since the virus had got loose, woofed back happily, tail wagging. The other dog jumped to put his paws on the window edge, and woof to Lottie. They exchanged eager nose sniffs.

"Oh, hey, Thor, careful, careful!" the teen yelped, "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I think he's scratched your door. Hey, tiger," the youth grinned across at Todd, "You got a really awesome dog here! What's her name?"

"Lottie," piped Todd, "That's Lottie."

"Hey, Lottie the Rottie! I like it!" He turned back to Kerryn's astonished face. "So, where are you folks headed?"

_Did he just apologise for scratching my car? _Kerry thought bemusedly._ And did Todd just talk?_ If they're land-pirates, she decided, they're not very good at it.

"We're looking for somewhere to... to stop," she said finally.

"Okay, well," he stepped back, "Just let me talk to the others, and then we'll talk again, okay?"

"Uh, okay," she replied, even more bemused. "Um, I'm a molecular biologist," she blurted.

The young guy turned back. "Yeah?" He looked as confused as she felt. "I got no idea what that is, but I bet you'd like talking to my cousin. Frankie!" He turned and bellowed towards the others, "We got a... what did you say you were? Never mind, she'll know."

"Uh, okay, great," Kerryn replied, a little dazed. "We'll, er, just wait here then..."

A sudden small movement in the trees to the side of the car caught her attention – she'd become a lot more aware of such things – and she jumped. "What's that?" she almost shrieked, scrabbling clumsily for the gun.

The young guy turned casually, and huffed dismissively. "Nothin' to worry about," he assured her, and his relaxed demeanour almost convinced her, "We make sure the Croats don't get anywhere near this road. Can't have people gettin' attacked while they're trying to find us – most, by the time they get here, they've just about reached the end of their tethers."

He gave her that reassuring grin, and she smiled back uncertainly. She was sure she'd seen something.

Kerryn glanced at Lottie in the rear-view mirror. The dog was a reliable detector of approaching threats, animal, human or Croat; anything dangerous got too close to her people, she would growl like an angry chainsaw, and explode into a slavering whirlwind of snarling and teeth. But Lottie wasn't at all troubled.

If anything, Kerryn mused, watching the dog peer intently into the greenery, she seemed inquisitive, her tail waved uncertainly.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

After the young guy – RJ, she learned, although she didn't know what that stood for – and his cousin Frankie had spoken briefly to everybody, they led the refugees down the deteriorating track. The ancient Volvo belonging to Dale and Vera finally gave up, the suspension collapsing, so they pushed it off the road, and left it.

"I'll come back and have a look, if I get a chance," RJ consoled Dale, "Depending on what it is, we might be able to get it running again."

"I'm well past the age of crawling around under vehicles, I'm afraid," quavered octogenarian Dale, "And if it needs parts, well, where the hell would you get them?"

"Here and there," RJ grinned, "Plus, we got someone who's real good with metalwork."

"It's hardly worth salvaging," stated Dale, "Besides, where am I gonna go, anyway? I've had enough of running, son. I'm old, and I'm tired."

"Huh, you sound just like my grandpa," RJ grinned even wider. "Because 'I'm too old to be dealin' with this shit' is the second most frequent thing out of his mouth. After 'Balls'. Actually, it's probably the third most frequent, after 'Balls' and 'God's tits!'. And 'Idjit'. Which makes it fourth, I guess." They'd loaded what they could of the elderly couple's belongings into the jeeps, and continued their journey.

It ended at the high gates of what looked like some sort of fortified compound. Over the gates, stood a sign worked in all sorts of pieces of metal. It read 'Singer Salvage'.

"It was a joke," RJ explained, "Because when we got here, and first started trying to set it up as some sort of liveable place, my Auntie Ronnie said that it looked worse than my grandpa's junk yard, so she made the sign, and you shoulda heard him, but it kinda stuck."

"Oh, is your aunt a welder?" asked Claudio, who had trained as a jeweller, "Or does she do smithing?"

RJ's face became sad. "She... she could do anything with metal," he said, visibly taking control of himself. "Short of smelt it, and she was scrounging books on that. She set up a forge, here. She made our ammo, our tools, she..." his voice caught, and he stopped. "But her daughter is just as good," he went on more firmly. Anyway," he signalled to somebody in a tower beside the gate, "We should get inside, then we'll go through induction for you. And food. I'm guessin' you've been eatin' a lot of canned stuff."

"Er," Kerryn began, still feeling bemused, "Don't you want to know what we've brought? What we can do?"

RJ shrugged. "We'll sort it out," he replied offhandedly. "We don't turn anybody away. As long as you're not a Croat. Or... meanin' to do us harm."

"How do you know that?" she blurted out, the unexpected lack of any sort of difficulty perplexing her, "You've barely spoken to us! And we're bringing dogs – pets!"

RJ turned on a smile that would make girls his own age swoon. "We've kind of gotten good at, uh, picking up on evil vibes," he replied. "Besides," he indicated the dog beside him. "Thor here has a good nose for evil shit. It's a dog thing. Have you noticed the way that dogs have good noses for evil shit?" He made a soft whuff, and Lottie trotted forward to butt against him for pats. "She's wonderful. And my Dad is gonna want to talk to you about her."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

There was a long building that was best described as a mess hall. The furnishings were rough, but the food was heaven after months on the road. Todd's eyes bugged out of his head as a pile of mashed potato was put on his plate, and a knob of butter on top of it, with greens and scrambled eggs.

"Mostly, we keep butter for the kids," explained the young woman who was dishing up the food, "The bread's not so good, we can't find any more yeast, and sometimes it rises, and sometimes it doesn't."

"That'll depend on what wild yeasts you have hanging around," Kerryn told her. "Have you thought about setting up any sort of screening process? You know, find the best one, the most active one, and isolate it, and propagate it?"

"Not really," the young woman admitted, "I wouldn't know where to start."

"Well, it wouldn't be that difficult," Kerryn shrugged, "So long as you've got some jars, and some way of boiling or baking them, then you can improvise growth medium, and just put 'em outside and see what you can catch, or if you've got just a tiny speck of yeast left somewhere..."

"You know how to do that?" The young woman's eyes lit up. "Oh, that's great! Chuck! Chuck!" She turned and yelled back at the kitchen. "CHUCK!"

An unkempt and harassed-looking man came out, peering at a clipboard. "What is it, Becky?" he sighed. "I'm kinda busy."

"This is Kerryn!" the woman named Becky enthused, "And she knows how to make yeast!"

"Not make," Kerryn corrected her, "Isolate, and propagate. Make more."

Chuck's eyes lit up. "You could do yeast?" he breathed. "Oh, that's, that's fantastic! Are you a baker?"

"I'm a molecular biologist," Kerryn replied.

"We could do proper bread!" chirped Becky.

"Screw bread, we could do beer!" Chuck beamed hugely. "We could do beer, we could do wine! We could do a mash, and a distillation! We could produce spirits! Oh my God, WE COULD PRODUCE DRINKABLE ALCOHOL!"

The crowded mess hall, which had been noisy with chatter, suddenly became silent. Kerryn felt herself blush furiously.

"Er, well, I don't know much about brewing," she stammered, "I know the theory, but I've never done it..."

"Doesn't matter," Chuck hummed happily, "You get the yeast, we'll grow something to ferment." He looked at her earnestly. "You don't think you could genetically engineer a toilet paper tree, do you?"

"Why don't you just go sit and eat," suggested Becky. Kerryn did just that, ushering Todd towards a table where a few other people were already eating, keeping a firm grip on Lottie's lead and making sure Lottie stayed close. She looked around the room, and saw that a number of other people had dogs with them, including the teenage girl at the opposite end of the table.

"Um," she said tentatively to another man at the table, "We've only just arrived, but, do they always let dogs in here, where the people eat?"

That prompted a stifled laugh from one of the young men at the table, who was viciously elbowed by the teenage girl.

"I'm not complaining," Kerryn went on hurriedly, "I'm kind of relieved – there were a couple of other places that said they wouldn't take pets, and Lottie here, well, she's one of us."

"Oh, they're welcome here," the teenage girl assured her, "When you've been here for a while, you'll understand. Dogs are members of the family, here. Wherever we go, they go."

Kerryn and Todd finished their meal in silence, then Todd put his plate on the floor for Lottie to lick. Kerryn was about to upbraid him, but realised that nobody else even seemed to notice.

"So, uh, how do you feed the dogs here?" she asked. "There seem to be quite a lot of them."

"A group of us go hunting," the teenager replied. "If you know where to look, it isn't hard to keep 'em all in fresh meat. Don't worry, she won't starve." She smiled at Lottie again. "Looks like she could do with a bit more meat on her ribs." Lottie looked up from her plate, and wagged her tail.

As the new arrivals were ushered back for seconds, Kerryn looked about her, feeling dazed. The little group of ill-equipped people she had travelled with had spent months on the road, desperately seeking a refuge from the Croats, looking for somewhere safe, hitting one difficulty after another, and now they were... here.

Nobody cared who they were, what they could do, what they had, or how old they were. We take everybody, RJ had informed them, so long as you're not a Croat, or a... someone looking to hurt us.

So, now they were here – it was impossible to believe that they'd found a safe harbour – and she had no idea what was supposed to happen next.

"How was lunch?" asked a voice at her elbow. She jumped; she hadn't heard the young woman – Frankie, she remembered – come up beside her.

"Oh!" Kerryn collected herself. "It was wonderful! Real potatoes! And real vegetables! They even went crunch! And bread, ohhh, bread."

"Well, for a given value of 'bread'," shrugged Frankie ruefully. "But Chuck seems to think you might help with that. Well, he seems to think that you might help with making alcoholic beverage, and improving the baking would just be a happy side-effect."

"Well, maybe we can do both," Kerryn suggested, "Although I'd suggest the baking yeast get a higher priority."

"Let him dream," suggested Frankie, "Meanwhile, we're getting all you newcomers to come and meet my uncle."

"Oh?" enquired Kerryn. "What does he do?"

Frankie smiled. "Oh, all sorts of things – he does building maintenance, he fixes the vehicles, he's got half a dozen kids that hang around with him, his pack, he calls them, they're learning from him, he leads salvage runs, not that there's much left to salvage within reach, now, and when they're not discussing dog breeding, he gets yelled at a lot by my grandpa."

"So, he's the local handyman?" Kerryn smiled.

"Well, actually, he runs the place, but otherwise, yeah."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

When the newcomers had all eaten their fill (and Sabine had laughingly told them not to feel guilty, because they would end up working for their keep like everybody else), she led them to a building that was as unassuming as the others they'd seen, but this one had another carefully constructed metalwork sign, smaller, more carefully and artistically wrought, secured to the wall. It read simply, 'The Den'.

"Come on," she led them up the stairs, "Let me introduce you to... well, they're kind of the bunch that keeps the place running, but mostly everybody calls 'em the G.O.M.s. For Grumpy Old Men."

"I heard that," complained a voice from inside, "And I'll have you know, I aint an old man yet, idjit."

"That is not strictly true," replied someone else in a gravelly but reasonable tone. "According to human reckoning, you qualify as 'old' by any criteria. Having passed the age of seventy, taken from the biblical reference to three score years and ten, has been a culturally entrenched benchmark for being considered 'old' in the Judeo-Christian idiom for centuries, and..."

"Pay no attention to him, darling," instructed an imperious British accent, "He can hardly talk – if we tried to put birthday candles on a cake for him, we'd start a supernova, or something."

"You do recognise that you are in no position to cast aspersions?" queried the gravelly voice somewhat peevishly. "You yourself definitely qualify as geriatric."

"You three are worse than the Three Stooges," sighed a voice with so much long-suffering in it that it was possible to hear the purse-lipped expression accompanying it, "And I should know, Dean made me watch enough of 'em when we were kids..."

Sabine shook her head, and pushed the door completely open.

The interior was lit only by the light that could make it through the windows. It was as untidy and cluttered as the office nook of the most eccentric professor Kerryn had ever encountered. The large table was strewn with maps, mugs, documents, and a small fluffy dog, who was napping in what appeared to be a porcelain chamber pot.

Poring over a document was an old man with a beard and a trucker's cap, who was scowling at an astonishingly well-dressed middle-aged man. Behind them stood an untidy-looking individual in a trench coat, whilst a tall guy with a ponytail put down a book and smiled at them.

However, the recent arrivals found their eyes drawn to the scuffle on the floor towards the back of the room. It appeared to consist of a man having some sort of wrestling match with half a dozen kids, who kept jumping on him as he rolled around and growled at them, making them all giggle.

"Uh, Dean," the tall guy said, "We got new people. Maybe you could spend a few minutes pretending to be a responsible adult."

"Ladies and gentlemen," Sabine made an elaborate reverence, "I give you, The Grumpy Old Men."

The man who had been referred to as Dean carefully pushed a couple of kids off himself, and stood up. Kerryn's brain did a double-take in a way it hadn't in a long time: he was into middle age, but handsome in a way that went beyond his physical appearance, which by itself was very attractive (_And just where the hell did that thought come from?_ her higher thought processes demanded to know). As he stood, and then walked, he exuded an easy masculine confidence that made a Neanderthal part of her hindbrain sit up and take notice the way she thought a married woman really shouldn't do, especially one that was bespectacled and let's be honest here still a bit plump and no oil painting...

His smile managed to make her feel like she was the prettiest girl at the prom.

There was a sudden dissonant clanging from outside, and they all jumped.

"Don't worry, folks," Dean grinned, "That's just the orange bell, for the kids."

"What's the orange bell?" asked Donna, one of the newcomers.

"Just what is says," Dean smiled, "Everybody eighteen and under goes to get an orange. Which I'm guessing means you. And possibly you." Kenny nodded. "And which means you lot." He cuffed gently at the gaggle of children milling around him. "You too, tiger," his eye landed on Todd.

Kerryn put a protective hand on her son's shoulder. "This is Todd," she said, "He's... had some trouble since... he's had a rough time."

Dean's smile turned gentle. "Haven't we all," he mused. He hunkered down in front of Todd, who, to his mother's amazement, did not try to pull back or hide behind her. "The thing is, Todd, we gotta make sure that all the kids get fed properly, while they're growin' up," he explained, "And eatin' an orange every day, when we can get 'em, is really good for you. Better than an apple, even, according to Sam..."

"The human body can't synthesise or store Vitamin C," the tall guy confirmed.

"Yeah, and he's a total geek, so he should know," confirmed Dean, "So, when we finish kicking these zombie bastards' asses, we're gonna need healthy people to help fix things, and that starts with you guys. Hey, don't worry," he winked up at Kerryn, "Your Mom will be safe here. So, I'll look after your Mom, and you go eat an orange." He stuck his hand out. "Do we have a deal?"

Smiling back, Todd stuck his hand out, and they shook on it.

"Good man." Dean stood up. "So, Paul, Melissa, show Todd where to get his orange, okay?"

A girl about his own age held out her hand, and Todd took it, then Sabine herded the small tornado of childhood out, no doubt to wreak havoc upon the unfortunate distributor of fruit.

"Don't worry, he'll be fine," Dean assured her, watching them go as Kerryn's eyes followed her son. "They look out for each other."

"Are any of them yours?" asked Vera.

"No," Dean's smile became sad. "We got ourselves a lot of orphans here, as you can imagine. Some of 'em are pretty damned traumatised. But they help each other. We figure the best we can do is make 'em feel safe, and try to feed 'em as well as we can."

"Where are you gettin' oranges from?" asked Dale.

"There's a tree in a garden, not too far away," Sam replied, "When we can, we go pick the fruit, and bring it back. Kids get first pick, then the adults get what's left over."

"Why not move the tree?" Dale pressed.

"Can you do that?" Sam mused. "It's an established tree. I thought moving a tree would damage it, or kill it."

"It's all about timing," Dale said, sounding like someone launching into a favourite topic, "Now, transplanting a fruit tree, even a mature citrus, is entirely possible, if you do it when it's dormant – the fruiting is slowing down about now, isn't it? – so, you cut it back, then, if you're careful, and you dig it out right, and you've got enough digging power..."

"Oh, digging power, we got that aplenty," chortled the old man in the trucker's cap.

Vera sighed. "Don't get him started," she begged, "You get him started about his garden, you'll never shut him up..."

Sam looked pleased. "A gardener? Excellent!" He picked up a dog-eared notebook.

"Why don't we all just sit down for a spell," suggested the behatted man, indicating a number of well-used sofas in a loose circle, some of which were occupied by napping dogs, "And we'll introduce ourselves, and explain our little establishment here to ya, so you folks can decide whether you'd like to join us." He turned to the man in the ridiculously well-tailored suit. "Go make tea, Fergus."

The suited man wore a wounded expression. "Bobby, love, you know I'll do that for you, but is it absolutely necessary for you to treat me as if I was an indentured servant?"

"You're lucky I don't treat your miserable ass like an indentured door mat," growled Bobby, "Or possibly even an indentured target. Make yourself useful."

The British guy, Fergus, picked up a teapot, and gave them a smile. "He's a diamond in the rough, really," he nodded at Bobby, who just growled at him. As he left the room, Lottie growled at him too, making him jump backwards, which prompted another Rottweiler on one of the sofas to growl at him as well. Fergus let out a little shriek, and scuttled away.

"Oh, I'm sorry," apologised Kerryn, "She's become so wary of strangers."

"Don't worry," grinned Bobby, leaning down to pat Lottie, who offered him a doggy grin, "All the dogs hate Fergus. Except for Gedda." The small fluffy dog, a teacup poodle, who was napping in the chamber pot on the table, lifted her head and yawned. "Go on," Bobby said to her, "Go keep him out of trouble." Gedda hopped out of the pot, shook herself vigorously, then jumped down and trotted after the retreating figure. "Now, I know that this has gotta be a lot for you folks to take in, and you're probably sittin' here with your heads spinnin', but I'll run you through our little organisation here."

He launched into an explanation that he'd obviously given many times before.

When the Croatoan virus had gotten loose, they'd rounded up as many humans as they could, and headed for the hills, metaphorically. Geographically, they'd headed for a place out of the way, but not remote, and set about fortifying an area where they could stay safe from the zombies. Life was rustic, but it was life. And it was getting better: the arrival of a guy who'd been a solar panelling expert had certainly made the ablutions block more civilised. It had been hard, and they'd lost a lot of good people, but they were still there, and surviving, and taking in anybody who needed a safe harbour.

Kerryn had the feeling that there was more to it – a lot more to it – than that, but remained silent.

"We got all sorts here," Bobby looked at them sternly, "We got white folks, black folks, red folks, yellow folks, brown folks, and, when Achak and Qiao Xin's baby arrives, we could well have an orange one, too, which would amuse me no end, we're hopin' to get an Eskimo soon so we can say we got the whole set. We got old ones, we got young ones, we got teenagers, we got single mothers, we got orphans and Christ knows how many widows and widowers, we got gay, we got straight, we got anywhere in-between, we got people who prefer a good book and an early night. We got theists, we got atheists, we got I-don't-give-a-shitists, we even let in a guy in a Cowboys shirt. The thing is," his shrewd gaze swept them, "We're all waifs and strays here, washed up a long way from home. And we all pull together, to cover each other's asses. We're all one big screwball extended family – if that don't suit you, that's fine, you aint prisoners, and we'll stock you up with as much as we can spare before you go, but if you decide to stay, you gotta be a team player."

His stern face broke into a tired smile. "So, that's the party political broadcast," he went on, "We'll show you around the place, and find you somewhere to call your own, but first, why don't you tell us a bit about yourselves? Whatever skills you got, we can find a way to use 'em."

Each of the new arrivals talked a bit about their background. When it was Kerryn's turn, Dean and Sam looked at each other.

"You're the molecular biologist?" queried Sam, and she nodded. "Frankie mentioned someone was a molecular biologist."

"Well, yeah," Kerryn replied, "But I don't know how much use that'll be. That guy Chuck seemed quite interested in the idea of isolating yeast to make drinkable alcohol."

"We'll talk later," Sam made some notes in his dog-eared book.

"RJ said his dad would want to talk to me about Lottie," Kerryn continued, looking around and realising that the dog had gone with Todd.

"That's me," Dean told her, "Dogs are important to us here. They're part of the team. I've been holding out hope that a suitable bitch might come along. These guys," he indicated a couple of the other Rottweilers, who had moved to a comfortable pile on the floor, "Are of a particular working line that we really don't want to lose. I'd like to meet Lottie. Would you consider breeding from her?"

"Uh, I guess we could consider it," Kerryn mused.

"Great." He looked around at the new arrivals. "We are not like any place you may have encountered before – we're in contact with some of 'em, and we know what they're like, how they operate. There's a whole bunch of stuff for you to learn about us, and how this place works," he said, "And as you settle in, we'll get to it. For now, you need to get your bearings, and just... catch your breath." His eyes swept them. "This place is as safe as we can make it – we haven't had a Croat or... anything else get in for a long time. But that's because we have security measures in place. So, until you get an understanding of how it works, I'm gonna ask you not to wander around after dark." It was phrased as a request, but it came out like an order issued to the troops by a general. "And stay away from a couple of places that are off-limits. Just for a few days, until you get the hang of how things work here."

"Tea up!" Fergus, with the little poodle at his side, returned, with teapots and some mugs on a tray.

"Oh, you have tea?" asked Vera eagerly.

"Alas, madam, not from _Camellia sinensis_," sighed the Brit sadly. "We have no way of acquiring the plants, and the climate is probably not right anyway. And the last of the coffee was swilled away long ago. But the untidy git over there grows a number of other herbs in his pot plantation..."

"The marijuana and poppies I cultivate are used purely for medicinal purposes, by Sister Felicity, our doctor," the trench coated man interrupted, looking annoyed, "And is not for recreational use by anyone, under any circumstances."

"Yes, yes, thus speaks Mother Superior of the Women's Temperance League in these parts, well, he's come up with a brew that is remarkably acceptable," Fergus the Brit went on. "So, shall I be mother and pour?"

"Get on with it, idjit," growled Bobby, holding out a stained mug. With a put-upon sigh, Fergus lifted the smaller pot, and poured. The smell was pungent, and unpleasant; Kerryn, along with a few of the others closest to it, let out surprised noises of disgust.

"You drink that?" burst out Claudio, "Whoa, it smells like ass!"

"Uh, this one is for those that like it," Dean grinned, holding out his mug. "It's definitely an acquired taste. Cas's blend for normal people," he nodded at the larger pot, "Is the preferred drink around here. You'll be able to get it in the mess at any time."

"Chuck did try to brew an alcoholic version," mentioned Sam, "Which was not completely successful."

"How not successful?" Kerryn couldn't help herself.

"Not too bad, all things considered," Bobby mused, sipping his ass tea, "We only lost part of the roof, he only lost one of his eyebrows, and what came out turned out to be a serviceable surgical spirit, so Fic commandeered the lot."

"It was truly dreadful stuff," confirmed Fergus, "Honestly, how he could actually have cried over losing what didn't even qualify as rotgut, I'll never know."

Dale cocked his head, and considered the non-native. "How do you come to be here, Fergus?" he asked. "Were you on vacation when the virus hit?"

Fergus's face looked momentarily stricken, like a deer caught in a spotlight, but Bobby answered for him. "The best way to think of Fergus here, is as him having sought... political asylum," he offered. "It's complicated."

They sat and drank their tea, and chatted some more about where they were from, until the whirlwind of kids came charging back in, Todd amongst them, smiling and thundering along with the rest. Bobby let out what could only be described as a howl of protest as a couple of them clambered over him to jump onto Dean. After only a small hesitation, Todd joined them, making Kerryn let out a little shriek of her own.

"Oof!" Dean grunted under the assault, standing up to escape. "Hey, what the hell was in those damned oranges? Crack? Sabine, get this lot outside, would ya?"

"Todd," Kerryn began hesitantly, but he just smiled at her, and Sabine held up a hand to forestall her.

"He'll be safe," she assured his mother, "And he'll find a way to fit in. Come on," she herded kids and some dogs back outside, and the sudden quiet was startling.

It was quiet, but Kerryn realised that none of the children had actually spoken. Laughed, roared, growled, shrieked, but not actually articulated words.

As if reading her thoughts, Sam grinned. "Don't worry," he said, "When school's in, we insist they act more like actual humans, and less like wild animals."

"Kids _is_ wild animals," Bobby chortled, "Now, we still got work to do here," he indicated the table strewn with paper and books, "So why don't you make with the tour, and get these folks settled in?"

"I'll do it," Sam offered, standing, "I'm goin' cross-eyed, here."

"Your hair is pullin' your brain too tight," opined Dean. Sam flipped him off as they left.

He showed them around the enclosed area, which was like a fenced village, surrounded by a fence with some decidedly odd details added here and there, and explained that, when not involved in working in the fields beyond for food production purposes or leaving to scavenge for abandoned items, people mostly stayed inside the fence, and they should do that until they settled in. There were a couple of other places that were off-limits, too. The metalwork shop was one, because it was dangerous, and the herb garden tended by the guy called Castiel, because those plants were needed by the rudimentary health clinic, and another small building, set away from the rest of the enclosure.

"What's that?" asked Kerryn.

Sam's face became deeply sad, but he tried to find a smile. "We got our own hermit," he replied. "We get a lot of people here, they've been through a lot, but..." he gestured helplessly to the small, isolated cabin. "He lost his wife, and his son, and even his dog," Sam explained. "It... did something. He doesn't come out, and you won't see him, well, unless we have an incursion, he'll be the first to tear into anything that tries to get in. We've tried – his daughter survived, and she's tried, we really have, he just... just leave him alone." The grief in his voice was obvious. "If he's not in his right mind, and mostly I think he's not, he might be... dangerous, he doesn't mean to be, he's the sweetest guy you could hope to meet, he just... isn't thinking straight..."

"The poor guy," mused Kerryn.

Sam took a deep breath, and let it out. "We hope we'll get him back one day, but... just leave him alone." With an effort, he put a smile on his face. "So, let's see about getting you people somewhere to call your own bed, then we'll talk some more about what you're goin' to do."

"I don't see how I can be helpful," said Vera mournfully, "I'm an old woman."

Sam's smile became more genuine, and he had dimples. "Vera, I will introduce you to Knitting Patrol, where they produce sweaters and blankets with extreme prejudice," he told her, "Then I will corner your husband to discuss how to move that orange tree."

"I don't suppose you have a lab that needs another pair of hands," Kerryn chuckled, and Sam gave her an intense stare.

"Tomorrow, I'll take you to talk to Felicity – Fic," he said, "There's something I hope you can help us with."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

As they finished the induction tour and Sam suggested that they head back to the mess for some more tea ("The one that doesn't smell like ass", he assured Kenny with that dimpled smile), the group of kids (the words 'horde' and 'swarm' popped readily to mind, as it seemed to have accreted new members) went past, absorbed in some game. Todd gave her a huge grin and a wave as they passed.

As the group of youngsters went by, a man emerged from the building that had been identified as the mechanics and electrics workshop and yelled, waving his arms. Two of the youngsters broke off, and went running to him, then he led them inside.

"We've got a sort of, uh, apprenticeship scheme, I guess you could call it," Sam offered by way of explanation. "We let the kids have a try at everything – if any of 'em show an interest in something, we pair 'em up with someone, and see if they have any aptitude for it. It's a way of giving 'em something to do, and a lot of 'em aren't too happy about sitting still for too long in the school room." He turned to Kerryn. "Once he's settled in a bit, we'll get your boy, Todd, wasn't it, to see if there's anything he'd like to try…"

"He's only nine," Kerryn's momma-bear streak kicked in, "And he's… he doesn't talk, since… since his father." She paused. "Except RJ. He talked to RJ. Which surprised the hell out of me."

"Doesn't surprise me," grinned Sam, "RJ's a personable guy. Gets it from his dad. But you'd be surprised at how good kids can get at something – we got an eleven-year-old who makes ammo nearly as good as Sabine, and that's saying something. On that subject, we'll want to get you all to the range tomorrow and do an assessment, find out where you're at."

"The range?" echoed Vera.

"Uh-huh," Sam nodded, "Everybody here learns to shoot, and if they know how, they practise. No exceptions, so long as you're able-bodied, and if you're not, the workshop will work something out for you."

Kerryn pulled a face. "I hate guns," she said, "The one I've got bit me."

"The slide, probably," Sam mused, "Self-taught?" She nodded. "Yeah, we get a lot of that, too, which is why you'll need some lessons on how to shoot right, and maintain your weapon."

"I don't have one," Mandy, Kenny's younger sister, said timidly, "And I don't really want one."

Sam shrugged. "Everybody learns," he said, in a calm voice that made it clear that no hall passes would be issued. "Then we'll find you one."

Dale wasn't happy. "My wife is eighty years old," he growled.

"Croats don't care how old somebody is," Sam shot back immediately, "They'll tear you apart and eat you regardless."

Dale was over eighty, but made of stern stuff. "I will not have my wife endanger herself," he insisted.

"Dale…" Vera interrupted.

"No, Vera, I'll have my say," Dale returned Sam's stare, "It's not reasonable to expect h-OOF!"

Vera whacked him in the arm. "Oh, put a sock in it," she snapped crossly, "I might be fifty years out of practice, but I was a better shot than you! Do I have to remind you about our honeymoon?" She looked around defiantly. "I brought down an 18-pointer on our second day, and you were almost molested by a juvenile with his first set of antlers after you got careless with the lady deer pee." She drew herself to her full height – all of about five three – and glared up at Sam. "You just find me something without too much kick, young man," she instructed, "And I'll remind this old goat how it's done."

"Yes ma'am," grinned Sam, turning to Kerryn. "Todd will learn with the other kids," he went on, "Dean instructs them, and…"

"He's nine years old!" Kerryn protested. "He's frightened of guns!"

"Like I said, Croats don't care," Sam brushed off her concern, "And he'll learn not to be frightened. That's one of the things that this place is about, getting people not to be frightened. Or at least, not frightened to the point where they can't act."

"You are not putting a gun in my son's hands!" Kerryn yelped.

"No, I won't," Sam replied reasonably, "Dean or Bobby takes the kids. And we'll probably start him off with a small rifle, so he can get confidence at a distance."

She opened her mouth to protest again, but then he gave her a look.

It was not an angry look, or a belligerent look. It was a calm, confident expression suggesting that he had just made a statement, and naturally things would occur as he said. She subsided, still somewhat unhappy, but consoling herself that if these people were as meticulous about guns as they seemed to be about everything else, Todd would be safe. Especially if Dean was doing the instructing – there was something about the guy that suggested that he was protective of the kids, and wouldn't let them come to harm.

Disarmingly, he showed his dimpled smile again. "You'll soon find that neither Dean nor Bobby will tolerate any horseplay on the range," Sam assured her, "He'll have the best teachers you could hope for." He looked up at the sky, and at the position of the sun. "Come on, let's go have that tea break. Just be careful if Becky's been tryin' to make cupcakes again – we don't have a dentist here."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

After dinner and the clean-up, in which Todd happily joined in the procession of kids whose job it seemed to be to clear all the tables, things seemed to be winding down for the day. "Our electricity isn't completely reliable yet, and we don't want to waste batteries if we don't have to, so we kind of mostly work by the sunlight," Chuck explained when she spotted him and asked him about it. "People tend to go inside, once the sun goes down," After dark, our patrols start, so make sure you stay inside until you get the hang of how it works – you don't want to be mistaken for a Croat, or… anything."

"Anything?" Kerryn snorted, "What sort of anything could be worse than a Croatoan zombie getting in?"

Chuck looked momentarily like a deer in the headlights, then stuttered, "Uh, well, we did have this, uh, skunk or something get under a cabin once, and that caused a certain amount of, uh, excitement, gotta go!" Clutching his ever-present clipboard, he did what she could only describe to herself as 'fled'.

"Hey, Kerryn!" She turned to see the teenager Sabine again, and Lottie whuffed a greeting and wagged her tail. "There you are! So, ready to settle in?"

"I guess," she shrugged, "Sleeping in an actual bed is going to be a weird experience after so long. Although an actual shower? That was bliss. I can now die happy."

"Hopefully not just yet." Sabine reached down to pat Lottie, who lapped it up shamelessly. "I wanted to ask you about Todd."

"What about him?" Kerryn's eyes darted immediately towards her son, who was carefully stacking bowls at one of the tables.

"Hey, nothing's wrong!" Sabine laughed. "I wanted to ask you if it would be okay for him to come to the metalwork shop, once he's settled in a bit. I showed it to him, while I was kid-herding, and he seemed keen to come and see what we do there."

She blinked at the teen. "He… how could you tell?"

Sabine looked non-plussed. "He told me," she said, "He doesn't say a lot, does he? But he said his father let him watch while he soldered."

The sudden grief caught Kerryn off-guard, the way it often did. "His dad made models," she explained, "Little tin and copper pieces, chess sets, toys, cartoon characters. The detail was unbelievable. Todd sometimes sat on his lap, watching, and he…" her breath caught, and she stopped.

Sabine smiled. "My Mom started teaching me when I was younger than Todd is now," she offered, "Real iron-fist-in-iron-glove teaching style – I can promise you, he won't be allowed to do anything without supervision. He may not even be interested. But if he is, and he wants to learn, well, we need people who can make things."

Kerryn took a deep breath. "Okay," she said, finally, "That'd be good for him to do that. If he wants to. When he's not doing school. Oh, God, I've been so worried about that, he hasn't been to school for, it's more than a year now."

"It's the routine," Sabine nodded, "Fic – our doctor – says that a routine of normal activities is important for kids. Well, it's important for everybody, I guess, but especially the kids."

"Yeah," Kerryn found a smile from somewhere. "There is something to be said for knowing what's coming next." The light outside was just about gone. "We should probably get to our beds," she decided, "It's been a long and kind of eventful day."

"Goodnight, then," Sabine said, "Remember, don't wander around in the dark for a few days." With a last smile to Lottie, she left.

Collecting Todd and heading for the small cabin they'd been given, Kerryn mused over the day's events. Her mind was full of half-formed questions; the emphasis on not wandering after dark, for example, although the reasons given made perfect sense, and it wasn't a permanent injunction. Nonetheless, it made her wonder. It was an unfortunate consequence of having trained in science, which pre-disposed a brain to try to pull together little bits of information into a working model, and of the last eighteen months, in which becoming suspicious of absolutely everything and everybody was a vital survival trait.

She looked around. The cabin was basic, but comfortable, and so much more than what they'd had for a long time. Lottie made herself at home on a blanket on the floor, and with a large humphing sigh, went to sleep. That had to be a good sign, Kerryn decided – the dog was, if anything, more hypervigilant than she was, so if Lottie was prepared to go to sleep, the place was safe.

"Okay, then," she oversaw Todd changing into his sleep sweats, and tucked him into bed, "I'd say lights out, but, well," she glanced at the small candle lantern she'd been given, "I guess I'll say, candle out. Good night. Sweetheart."

As she leaned down to kiss him, he smiled, and for the first time in more months than she could remember, whispered, "Good night, Mom."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It was a proper bed, just like he'd had back home, before the strange sickness came and made people zombies and made everything break down, which to a nine-year-old seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been a busy day for Todd, finding somewhere to stop – it looked like they would stay here – and meeting so many new people.

He decided that he liked the other kids he'd met, and the adults too – they weren't interested in trying to 'understand' or 'help' him. They just… _were_, and they were happy to let him just be, too, and they didn't do that horrible thing of being sorry for him until he wanted to squirm. That's why he talked to Lottie sometimes, but not anybody else – she listened, but she didn't cry at him, or over him, or for him, she just listened, and was there. He liked RJ, whom he'd decided was really cool, and he liked Dean, because… well, he couldn't say exactly why, but there was something about the man that made him feel safe. And he liked Sabine, because she'd showed him the metal shop, and hadn't said things like 'don't touch that' and 'you're too young'. She said if he wanted to, he could come and look around in the metal shop, and maybe have a try at some stuff, she could teach him if he wanted to learn, and the idea of being safe enough for long enough to stay somewhere and learn something was, somehow, balm to his soul.

There was a lot of sadness and loss here – but people didn't dwell on it. The adults didn't whisper to each other, or assume that because he was a kid and he didn't talk he was somehow deaf or stupid or both. And there were dogs, too. That was good, because one of the things he'd dreaded was that, one day, somebody would take Lottie away, but they went everywhere with the people, here. Sabine had explained that, for some things, dogs were smarter than humans, like picking up on threats, or finding stuff, or finding people, so they were part of the big family, too. He went to sleep easily that night.

It was the middle of the night when he woke up, not sure why – it hadn't been a nightmare, and it wasn't his Mom shaking him awake and whispering frantically, and there wasn't any screaming. Glancing at his mother, who was still asleep, he sat up, and looked down at Lottie. She was awake too, but sitting on her blanket, relaxed but alert.

"Did you hear something?" he whispered to her. She cocked her head, listening. And then, he heard it again.

It sounded like a muffled howl, from a wounded animal, but it was a sound so full of sadness, loss and despair that he could practically feel the heartbreak behind it.

His breath caught. Whoever was making that sound was really, really upset. Inconsolable. He knew how that felt. Silently, he slid out of bed, and sat on the floor with Lottie. She looked up at him, but stayed silent.

The awful keening sounded again, redolent of grief so desperate and deep that it shouldn't be possible to be so sad, so desolate, and still be alive.

"Why doesn't somebody go?" Todd asked Lottie. She humphed, and thumped her tail a couple of times. The sound was quite muffled; maybe somebody was trying to keep quiet, and failing?

Everybody here had been so nice, Todd thought, so… comfortable. It wasn't right that somebody should be so sad, and maybe all alone.

"Somebody should go," he told Lottie. He'd been told not to go out in the dark, for a few days, because there were security patrols, and he didn't want to get mistaken for a zombie, but if that was the case, why wasn't somebody going to see what was wrong?

After he heard the heart-rending cry again, he made a decision.

Pulling on his shoes and tugging his sweater over his head, he carefully let himself out of the cabin, with Lottie at his side.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The darkness outside wasn't complete; the half moon provided some light as it popped in and out from behind the scudding clouds. Todd stood, uncertainly, listening for the noise. When it came again, he turned, and followed it.

His path took him across the enclosed compound, towards the small isolated hut.

He paused; he'd been told he should stay away from it, because the guy who lived there was really sad and liked to be alone and didn't come out. That would get pretty boring after a while, he decided, no matter how sad you were. While he was musing on that, the muffled sound came to him again.

Todd glanced at Lottie. She whined a little, but didn't do the snarling thing that she always did when something dangerous was around. Taking his cue from that he approached the small structure.

The walls were rough wood on the outside, like most of the other buildings, and he felt the grain of hastily finished timber as he put his hands to the wall. "Hello?" he whispered. "Hello?"

From the other side of the wall came a strange rumphing noise. It took him a moment to recognise it: it sounded just like Lottie sniffing at something interesting.

Todd didn't ask 'Are you okay?', because clearly whoever was making that noise wasn't. "I can tell you're sad," he whispered, putting his ear to the wall. "I get really sad too." He paused. "If you don't want to talk, that's okay, though." There was whimpering from the other side of the wall. "Just so you know, it's okay to be sad," he added. "You can't help it, it just happens, so it's not your fault. I really miss Dad. I guess you miss somebody, too."

The sound from the other side of the wall was like a defeated moan.

"I better get back," Todd said, "My Mom will get mad if she finds I'm gone, but I just came out to see if you…" he ran out of words. "I'm sorry you're so sad," he finished. "Goodnight. I hope maybe you feel better tomorrow."

He stepped back from the wall, and looked around, shivering. It was cold. He would be glad to get back into his proper bed.

Todd had just turned and taken a few steps back the way he'd come when suddenly Lottie froze beside him. "Lottie?" he asked uncertainly, "Lottie? What's wrong? What…"

The dog's face drew into a snarl, and, hackles bristling, she let out a low, threatening growl.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It must've been the sense of security about the place, Kerryn thought later, that's what had put a dampener on her Mom-radar. However, when she woke up and saw that her son was gone, his bed was still warm, so she squelched the panic, and reasoned that he couldn't have gone far. Pulling on her boots, she headed out to look for him.

His shoes had left an intermittent trail on the dewed ground, so she followed it as quickly as she could. With a growing sense of dismay she realised that he'd been heading in the direction of the hermit's hut…

Kerryn let out a little yelp of relief when she spotted him, standing a few yards from the off-limits hut, studying something in the darkness, and broke into a run.

"Todd!" she called to him, "Todd, what are you doing? What are you doing out of…"

That was when she realised that Lottie was bristling and growling. And then she saw why.

Out of the shadows stalked the unmistakably unkempt shape of a Croatoan zombie.

* * *

For the record, I'm disappointed that Norway didn't poll better in Eurovision. I have nothing against bearded women, but I'm a bit disappointed that a man performing as a woman with a beard had to use cosmetic enhancement rather than growing his own facial fuzz. I'm the kiss of death; if you ever end up entering Eurovision, I'll make sure not to cheer for you, because you'll end up all Father Ted 'Song For Ireland'...


	4. Chapter 4

Now he's got his very own honest-to-Cas story, this little bunny, whose name might well be Ulfric, has become positively pushy, and is kicking poor little Imogen-Bubba (the little bunny dictating 'On Yer Bike') in the shins...

* * *

**Chapter Four**

In future years, Kerryn would look back, and wonder how the next five minutes didn't make her brain implode.

Having seen the Croat catch sight of Todd, her body reacted before her brain could: she bellowed her son's name, and charged at the zombie. Her one half-formed thought was that if it attacked her instead of Todd, then it might be busy eating her for long enough for somebody to save her boy.

Her bellow was matched by a roar that was even louder, and possibly even angrier.

The door of the small structure burst open, and a monster leaped out.

Kerryn's bellow turned to a yipping scream of half terror, half utter disbelief. The thing that erupted from the small cabin was monstrous, huge, standing at least seven feet tall, but there was something wrong about the anatomy of the legs.

The moon emerged from behind a ragged cloud, and she fell backwards, her mouth hanging agape. The thing that had burst out of the cabin was a gigantic wolf, standing upright, but with long bulging arms, and hand-paws tipped with four-inch claws. Its ears were flattened in anger, and the muzzle bristled with teeth that looked like a cross between a bear's and a shark's, enormous canine fangs jutting from the upper jaw. Catching sight of the Croat, the monster let out another bellowing snarl of rage.

Almost too fast for Kerryn to see what what happening, it leaped at the zombie, drew back one arm, and took the Croat's head off with one swipe.

With a savage howl, it lifted the headless corpse and, huge arms bulging, tore what was left in half.

It took less than ten seconds.

Sprawled on the ground, frozen with incomprehension, Kerryn saw the monster's eyes land on her and narrow. It dropped the pieces of the zombie, and rumbled a long, low growl.

"Mom?"

The sound of Todd's voice shattered her paralysis. She scrambled to her feet, and lurched towards her son, intent only on grabbing him, and running, in any direction, just away from the gigantic monstrous thing.

The monster dropped to all fours, and took a slow, stalking step towards her. It put her in mind of the time Lottie had found and stalked a rat, before pouncing on it and snapping its neck.

Slowly, she edged herself between Todd and the monster. It growled at her. She bared her teeth, and growled back.

"Stay away from my boy!" she hissed, backing away. The monster matched her steps. _Maybe if we can get inside somewhere,_ she thought frantically, _Maybe if we can get a wall between us and it, we can – _

It leapt.

The bound took it clean over Kerryn and Todd, to land on another zombie. The inarticulately slavering Croat writhed under the enormous bulk, then the wolf-thing bit down, and tore its head off.

Apparently not content with that, it drew back one enormous paw, bunched into a fist, and punched through the Croat's chest. Kerryn's stomach heaved when she realised that the dripping handful the monster pulled out was the zombie's heart.

It stared at the heart, and blinked almost in surprise at what it had done, then the gigantic animal raised its muzzle to the sky and let out a heart-rending howl.

"Hey."

It was said in a quiet voice, a tone that was calm, yet redolent with authority. The monster's head snapped around, a snarl on its face. Kerryn's head whipped around too.

When she turned, there was just Dean, accompanied by the Rottweiler that had shadowed him earlier. By some trick of the light, the dog's eyes appeared to be glowing red. He was barefoot, and appeared to be wearing nothing but threadbare sleep sweats, but didn't look at all uncomfortable in the evening chill. Incredibly, Dean appeared to be unarmed, and he stood casually, looking unconcerned. He addressed the monster in a calm voice.

"Stand down, big guy," he said quietly, "Threat's dealt with. You got 'em." He glanced around at the gory detritus. "Although you coulda been less untidy about it."

With an uncertain rumble, the huge wolf-thing switched its attention to Dean.

"Stand down," repeated Dean in a level voice. "The den is safe now. The pack is safe. Your pack is safe."

At that, the monster threw back its head, and let out another mournful howl into the night, then dropped its head.

Dean just smiled sadly. "I know," he told the creature, "I know." Putting himself deliberately between Kerryn and Todd and the monster, he went on. "Go kill something. You stink of bloodlust. Get it out of your system, then get your shaggy ass back here before sunrise, or I'll come looking. With silver."

With a growling bark, the gigantic thing turned and bounded towards the fence. Using a couple of projections, it half-jumped, half-climbed the barrier, dropped to the other side, and loped away into the darkness.

Bewilderment, terror and relief that her child was safe found its way out as anger. Kerryn rounded on Dean.

"What the hell is that thing?" she demanded in a half-sob. "Sam said you had a hermit living there! What the hell are you doing keeping some sort of mad dog on the inside of your compound? What the fuck breed of dog was that – is that your 'special breeding program'? You're crossing dogs with frigging bears or something?"

Dean let out a long breath, then turned to Kerryn. He didn't bother to ask what she was doing outside. "Follow me," he said, turning his back and heading towards the other cabins. At a few words from him, his dog left off exchanging cordial nose-sniffs with Lottie, and trotted away.

"Hey!" she yelled, grabbing his shoulder. "Don't you turn your back on me! I deserve some…"

Dean turned, and gave her what she would come to describe, like everybody else, as The Look.

Her jaw shut with a click.

"I said, follow me," he repeated in that quiet voice that brooked no defiance.

Rattled, Kerryn found her voice. "I'm putting Todd back to bed," Kerryn she managed.

"Him, too," Dean didn't even turn around, "He needs to hear this. Come on, Todd, I got some stuff to tell you."

Todd took a few running steps to catch up with Dean. He grabbed the man's sleeve, and asked, "Was that a monster?"

Dean paused, looked down and smiled. "No, tiger," he replied, "But you come with me, and I'll tell you what it was."

Still holding on to Dean's jacket, Todd headed off with him, the two dogs trotting along beside them. After a few moments of gaping in bemusement, Kerryn hurried to catch up.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They were headed back to the building called The Den, she saw, and when they arrived, Sam was already there, looking worried.

"What set him off?" he asked Dean without preamble.

"Croats," Dean replied. Once inside, he seated Todd on one of the sofas, and bundled him up in a blanket. Lottie jumped up beside him. "Sit," he told Kerryn.

"Woof, woof," she scowled, sitting, "Do I get a treat now?"

"Roll over and I'll scratch your belly," Dean answered utterly without humour.

The door banged again as Bobby came grumbling in, with Fergus right behind him. "What set that idjit off?" he wanted to know.

"Honestly, has nobody thought about debarking that great pillock?" snapped Fergus. "He might as well be a big neon sign, saying, 'Yoo-hoo, here were are, just follow the air raid siren'."

"Your presence here is more of a threat to the safety of this encampment," came a gravelly voice. Fergus let out a little yip and jumped as Castiel emerged from the shadows. "Perhaps we could debark you."

"I'll just go get Fic, shall I?" chirped Bobby brightly.

"Bobby, darling, you wouldn't," Fergus whined reproachfully.

Bobby beamed serenely. "I'd pass her the scalpel," he replied. "Go make tea, Fergus. And some cocoa for the youngster, if we got any – tell Chuck I authorised it." Muttering mutinously, Fergus retreated.

"So, how did Croats get in?" Sam asked, eyeing Kerryn and Todd, "And what are they doin' here?"

"We got a wanderer," Dean grinned wryly and nodded at Todd, who had the grace to look abashed, "Who's also a bit of a nosey parker. And they didn't get in – they were let in."

There was a moment of silence.

"They stunk of sulphur," Dean went on quietly, "And of The Pit. Xena smelled it too."

Fergus's eyes bugged, and he let out a whining noise.

"Balls," muttered Sam.

"God's tits," said Bobby.

"I believe this is a situation in which somebody should add to that, 'And Satan's toilet tissue'," intoned Castiel seriously. "Do I have to context correct, Bobby?"

"Unfortunately, yeah," the old man took off his hat, and scratched his head. "You better start at the beginnin', Dean."

Dean rubbed a hand across his eyes, and turned to Kerryn and Todd. "We have no secrets here," he began, "We need for you to know about everything that goes on. But, usually, we let people settle in for a few days before we brief them on some of the more… unusual aspects of this group."

"Like the fact that you keep a, what the hell was that, a blood-crazed elephant hound?" Kerryn shot back.

Sam drew in a sharp breath, but Dean just laughed. "No, not exactly," he conceded, "Although the running joke is 'South African Hippo Hound'." He paused as if wondering how to go on. "What I'm going to explain to you will sound impossible, incredible, and to a brain trained in science, utterly unbelievable," he continued. "Most people just laugh at me at this point, or assume that I'm crazy, shut up, Sam, or that we've got some group delusion thing goin' on, so I've found that a demonstration is usually necessary." He turned to Sam, who rolled his eyes.

"Just do it, Dean," he groaned, "You lose every single time, bro…"

Dean cleared his throat pointedly, and held out a hand. With a put-upon sigh, Sam held out his hand, and they did a rock-paper-scissors one two three…

Dean let out a little noise of disgust. "Told you, bro," Sam shrugged, sitting on one of the sofas.

"We'll you'll need to take over the commentary," Dean instructed grumpily, pulling his sweatshirt over his head and throwing it aside.

Sam turned to Kerryn and Todd, as Dean, unbelievably, continued to remove his clothes until he was naked. Kerryn pointedly averted her eyes.

"Get used to it," Sam grinned, "Because quite a few people around here are completely without hang-ups about it. You might even see the night patrols going au naturel."

Kerryn blinked. "People walk around all night, out there, naked?" she asked incredulously.

"Oh, I aint naked," Dean grinned at her, "Right now, I just don't have any clothes on. And people as such don't walk around like this." He moved into her line of sight. "I need you to watch."

"Get your jollies somewhere else, perve," she snarked in pique, making Bobby cackle in amusement.

"I said," he went on the tone of quiet authority he'd used on the monster, "I need you to watch."

Reluctantly, she fixed her eyes firmly on a spot between his eyebrows.

"Okay," he went on, "Now, what you saw tonight wasn't a monster. It's not an it. It's a he. His name is Andrew Jaeger. You've met Sabine? He's her father. And he's my den-sire. And he's a werewolf. Just like me."

"A…" Kerryn's jaw dropped. "Did you… did you just say… _werewolf_?"

Dean nodded. "An Old North werewolf, which is different to the native North American ones. We're bigger, and hairier, and you know what?" His face went from serious to cocky grin, "I think we're just all around more awesome…"

He did a sort of shrug thing, and…

Kerryn screamed.

* * *

Keep sending reviews, because the only way to get this loony little leporid to shut up will be to get him across the finish line.


	5. Chapter 5

It's entirely possible that was the name of a Crazy Dog Woman that Dean spent a night with in a previous story. I'm not terribly imaginative with names. However, this Kerryn is not that Kerryn. She's a dog person, but no crazier than is typical.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Where Dean had stood, there was now another monster. Not as tall as the one that had come out of the hut, but if anything, even more heavily built.

With a pained sigh, Fergus put a hand to his ear. "And that is why I prefer these little demonstrations to happen out of doors."

"He… he…" Kerryn's voice deserted her, but Todd just stared, apparently fascinated. The gigantic wolf winked at him, stuck out its tongue, and blew a raspberry.

"You're not so big," Todd observed.

Sam and Bobby burst out laughing, and the werewolf huffed in a recognisably miffed fashion.

"He takes after his den-dam," Sam chortled, "She was short, even for a female."

"Got her build, though," Bobby chuckled fondly, "Built like a brick shithouse, Ronnie was."

Kerryn's brain supplied a prompt. "Ronnie?" she echoed. "RJ said something about somebody called Ronnie, she did metalwork…"

"That she did," Bobby smiled sadly. "Had a real talent with the gas axe."

"Ronnie was Andrew's wife, but it went deeper than that," Sam explained. "When Old North werewolves find The One, they pair up for life. She was his mate, his pair-bond. They had pups, their kids, Connor and Sabine. You've met Sabine. Connor, we lost with his mother. And even Ares. Her dog. He was Xena and Zeus and Thor's littermate." His face became sad. "If it hadn't have been for Sabine, we'd probably have lost Andrew, too. He'd just have gone out for a run one night, and not come back."

"It's what Old North wolves do, sometimes," Bobby went on, "If they lose their pair-bond. But an adult won't abandon a pup, or a pack that needs him."

"Has… has anybody talked to him?" Kerryn asked, not able to tear her eyes away from the huge brindled wolf standing right in front of her. Todd was fascinated; he stretched out a hand to touch Dean's arm – the wolf carefully extended a hand-paw, and let the boy examine the wicked claws.

"We've tried," Sam sighed, "But he doesn't want to talk. Hell, he hasn't been human for, how long is it now, it's gotta be more than a year…"

"The thing is," Bobby said, "He'll come out when we need him – you need a brawler for a scavenging trip, or if anything suspicious happens inside the fence, he's like a mincing machine – but his losses, they've left him deranged with grief."

"So…" Kerryn watched Todd carefully trace the four-inch claws up to the fingers of the paws, "How many… Jesus, I don't believe this… how many of these _werewolves_ are there?"

"Oh, we got a few," Bobby chuckled, as Fergus reappeared with tea, "Sam. Me. Sabine – she was born to it, like RJ and Frankie. Some others, who you'll meet, and get to know. If'n you wanna work out who's who, just look to see who's drinkin' the ass tea."

"The tea that the werewolves like to drink is prepared from houndswort," Castiel informed her seriously, "A herb that I cultivate for the purpose. Felicity has made some preliminary studies, and has concluded that it is not physiologically addictive. According to them, it just tastes good."

"It is the work of some malevolent power," Fergus informed her, wrinkling his nose as he handed a mug to Bobby, "And unless you're a wolf, it tastes exactly as disgusting as it smells. No, in fact, I think it tastes even worse than it smells."

"So, you're not a werewolf, then?" Kerryn asked.

Bobby guffawed as Fergus performed a small bow. "No, dear lady, I am not myself of the lycanthropic persuasion."

"He's somethin' much worse than a werewolf," Bobby chuckled, sipping his ass tea.

"I would debate you on that point," Fergus yapped peevishly.

"You would lose a rational debate," Castiel opined firmly, "You are definitely worse than a werewolf."

Tearing her eyes away from her son, who had moved on to inspecting the corded muscle of Dean's enormous arm, Kerryn turned to Bobby. "Well, then, what exactly… _is_ Fergus?"

The old man took another sip of tea. "He's a demon," he answered her. "In fact, he's the deposed King of Hell."

Kerryn's credulity lobe did a somersault.

"A demon," she echoed.

"Yup."

"As in, a demon from Hell."

"The very same."

"A… demon."

"That's the bunny," smiled Bobby.

"An evil demon. From… Hell."

"I can see you're catching on," Bobby nodded.

Kerryn regarded Fergus. "He doesn't _look_ very demonic," she ventured doubtfully.

"It's true," Sam backed her up, "You don't. Fergus."

"What exactly am I supposed to look like, then?" demanded Fergus, sounding thoroughly piqued.

"Well," Kerryn waved a hand vaguely, "I don't know, I'm a scientist, not a theologian! Don't you have, you know, horns, tail, feet of a goat, that sort of thing?"

"Oh dear, and here's me without my pitchfork," Fergus said snidely, "How embarrassing, I don't know where to put my face…"

"Demons take host bodies," Sam explained, "They really do have to possess somebody. Which is why you'll see a lot of these." He pulled down the neckline of his sweatshirt to show a circular tattoo. "Anti-possession charm."

"Perhaps a quick demonstration is in order," Bobby suggested. "She is a scientist, after all."

Fergus looked stricken. "But, if those Croats were let in…" he said worriedly, "Who let them in? What if they notice me?"

"If there were any more of your pit-buddies lurkin' around, the patrols would've picked up on 'em by now," Bobby growled, "So, show the nice lady what an evil sumbitch you are… Crowley."

"Don't say it!" Fergus hissed, "Don't you dare say it out loud!" He sagged with defeat. "For the record, I hate you all," he muttered sullenly.

"For the record, we don't give a rat's ass," intoned Castiel. "Did I use that correctly, Bobby?"

"Absolutely," nodded Bobby.

With a put-upon sigh, Fergus glanced over at the small teapot he'd used to make the houndswort brew. "You know, I've hated that teapot since I first clapped eyes on it," he remarked sourly, gesturing carelessly at it.

The teapot suddenly flew from the table, and crashed into the wall, where it broke into pieces.

Before Kerryn had the chance to let out a shriek, Fergus turned to her, his eyes glowing red. "You piss on this meatsuit while I'm out, mate," he said to Dean, "I will pull your bloody ears."

Kerryn did let out a shriek when Fergus threw back his head and a wailing, roiling column of thick black smoke boiled out of him. It circled on the ceiling whilst his body slumped to the ground, keeping up a cacophony of strident, unearthly sounds.

"That's enough," Bobby shouted over the racket, "Maybe you can live in a dead body, but I need this one's hearin' to stay intact for as long as possible."

The seething vapour momentarily formed a hand shape, flipped Bobby the big vee, then it speared back down into the inert form on the floor. Fergus blinked his eyes, and stood up, brushing himself down.

"So, right, demon, from Hell, possesses human body, blah blah blah, but sadly no pitchfork, terrible breach of etiquette, so sorry, et cetera, are we quite done?" he enquired. He took in Kerryn's expression of disbelief, her mouth working silently. "Do close your mouth, darling, you look like Winchester the Elder trying to count without using his fingers."

Dean the werewolf growled, and flipped Fergus off. He shrugged, and resumed his human form, without interrupting the bird.

"Yeah, it's a lot to take in," he smiled at Kerryn as he pulled his sweats back on, "But it's real. It's all real. Werewolves are real. Demons are real."

"Are there _any _humans here?" Kerryn asked, still rattled by Fergus's demonstration. "Are you human?" She turned to Castiel. "No, wait, let me guess, you're not human, you're the fairy at the bottom of the garden?"

Ignoring Fergus's sniggering, Castiel drew himself to his full height. "I am Castiel," he intoned, "I am an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven."

"And such a snappy dresser," added Fergus smilingly.

"An… angel." Kerryn was certain her head was going to explode. "An angel. Of the Lord. From Heaven."

"A Warrior of Heaven," clarified Castiel.

"Ask to see his harp," prompted Fergus cheerfully. Bobby slapped him upside the head.

"I do not have a harp," Castiel intoned in his serious voice, "Because I am not a Herald, a Messenger of Heaven. I am a Warrior. I carry this." Out of the sleeve of his coat dropped a short silver blade, which glittered and almost hummed with power.

"Do the wing thing, Cas," suggested Dean.

"What's the wing thing?" asked Kerryn.

"Well, obviously, if he's a fairy, he'll have wings," Fergus rolled his eyes. "To go with the magic wand, and the pumpkins, he grows those in his patch too, you know, to turn into coaches – Dean Winchester, you _shall _go to Crufts! – and-OW!"

For a moment, something happened to the candle lanterns that were the only sources of light in the room. The light from them brightened, grew, and took on a blue-white intensity that seemed completely impossible for small candles to throw. When she looked back, the same intense glow was visible from Castiel's eyes, as if he was lit from inside.

On the wall behind Castiel, the shadows of two enormous wings unfurled.

"Wow," breathed Todd.

"Cool, huh?" grinned Dean. The boy nodded, entranced.

Kerryn put her head in her hands. "That's it," she groaned, "That's it, this whole… thing has finally driven me mad. That's it. I'm mad. I've gone stark raving mad. Either I've led us right to some weirdo cult, or I've gone totally mad…"

Castiel walked over to the broken teapot, and gathered up the pieces. "I recognise that what you are learning here is difficult for you to accept," he said, taking the pieces in his hands, "But it is true. Werewolves exist. Demons exist. And so do angels. Along with many other things that you have always believed were just fairy tales, myths, and characters in gothic horror novels."

He put the intact teapot back on the table.

"Like Feathers says, you'd be amazed at just what is out there that normal folks don't know about, and don't want to know about," Bobby told her, "The ones that don't bother us, we don't bother them. The ones that do go bump in the night, well, when we can, we bump back."

"It's been harder since Croatoan was released," Sam said, slurping at his tea, "A lot of fuglies have gone to ground, while others have come out to play. Demons, most notably."

"Released?" Kerryn picked up the word he used, as Todd carefully inspected Dean's mug of houndswort tea. At a nod from the man, he picked it up, and sniffed at it. "Croatoan was reported to have made a jump from an illegally imported pet monkey to humans via a bite. Well, that was the theory, anyway."

"It was released," Bobby reiterated. "As part of a political coup to dislodge His Majesty here from his bidet. Which he uses as his seat of office,' he clarified, seeing the incomprehension on Kerryn's face.

"They've probably chopped it up, or turned it into sawdust to put in the imps' litter trays," Fergus theorised mournfully. "It was an antique, you know, 19th century, French rosewood, and a Chinese porcelain pot, those ignorant oiks are probably using it as a spittoon. Poor Gedda. She did so love to nap in the pot. Didn't you, my poor displaced darling?"

To Kerryn's surprise, a little comet of white vapour suddenly appeared, orbiting Fergus a couple of times before suddenly solidifying into the small fluffy teacup Poodle she'd seen earlier and dropping into his lap."

"Don't mind herself there," Bobby chortled, seeing Kerryn's startled expression, "She's a Hellhound."

"The most feared of the Infernal Pack," Fergus added proudly, "There isn't a pair of demonic trousers Down There that she hasn't torn out at some point, is there, my sweetie?" Gedda climbed up Fergus's shirt to lick at his nose. "No there isn't, no there isn't, is there?"

Kerryn took in the sight of the little dog yipping happily. "She, er, doesn't look like a, um, Hellhound," she managed.

Fergus looked up, clearly peeved. "Oh, excuse me, Doctor Expert-On-What-Infernal-Beings-Should-Look-Like," he said sourly, "Do enlighten us all, ignorant as we are, I'm sure you have a PhD to back up your ideas, I should very much like to read your thesis sometime…"

"Shut up, Fergus," sighed Bobby. "That's just the physical form she takes when she's on to this plane, where space and matter is three-dimensional and time is linear."

"If you saw her true form, you'd drop dead of fear on the spot," Fergus sounded as though he rather enjoyed the idea of his little companion terrifying people to death, "She is that fearsome, that ruthless, that bloodthirsty, that…" The little dog jumped from his lap and trotted across the room to Kerryn, raising a paw adorably, soliciting attention. "Hey! HEY! Do not pet the ferocious Hellhound!"

"She's adorable!" cooed Kerryn, stroking the fluffy head. "If she's a Hellhound, why doesn't she look more, you know, imposing?" She gestured to the sprawl of Rottweilers who seemed to go everywhere with their people (or werewolves, or whatever). "Like them."

"Oh, those guys are only part Hellhound," Sam explained, "Three-eighths, technically, but when it comes to Hellhound genetics, 'technically' doesn't mean a lot, according to Kelly. When she gets back, you can talk shop with her."

Kerryn looked thoughtful. "You know, if the virus was released - you're saying it was engineered, and deliberately released? - that would explain a couple of things. I mean, it wouldn't explain explain them, because I had a look at some of the raw data coming off the sequencer at CDC before it all turned to crap, unpolished data, but there were some things that were just really weird. Ploughing through it was really boring." She paused. "I really miss boring - I never realised just how wonderful boring could be..."

"They had a chance to get some sequence?" interrupted Sam. "How the hell?"

"It was somebody I did a post-doc with," Kerryn continued, "She was having trouble culturing it, and I suggested that she try a yeast system I developed, because some of the data kind of reminded me of icosahedral viruses of _S. cerevisiae_, the causes of 'killer yeasts', and..."

"You worked on that stuff?" Sam pressed.

"Well, yeah," Kerryn shrugged, "I did my thesis on it. I sent her a couple of strains to try, although I suspect it all turned to shit before they ever got there... what?"

The Grumpy Old Men were looking at each other, then Bobby turned to her, and grinned.

"Kerryn, I think we got a job for you."

* * *

Well, Ulfric is turning into a loquacious little leporid, isn't he? Feed him reviews to keep him whispering, because Reviews are the Adorable Cuddly Little Hellhound Materialising Out Of Thin Air And Dropping Into You Lap For Cuddles On The Sofa Of Life!


	6. Chapter 6

I don't think Kerryn is based on me: I don't wear glasses, I have no experience at all with yeast culture or viruses, and I've never been bitten by a firearm. However, having seen a number of people at work today with what appears to be some ghastly viral lurgy, I'm prepared to believe that I may be in the middle of some sort of zombie apocalypse...

* * *

**Chapter Six**

When Kerryn woke in an actual bed, with the sun streaming in through the window, she experienced a moment of disorientation, then the previous evening's events came crashing back in on her and she sat up with a small shriek. Todd was getting dressed, while Lottie humphed impatiently by the door.

"Todd, what are you doing?" she demanded, more harshly than she intended. It didn't seem to worry him, though – he turned on her the grin she'd worried she'd never see again, and said one word.

"Food!"

With that, he was out the door, Lottie with him. Through the window, she saw him run to join the horde (or swarm? Herd? Flock? She'd have to see if there was a collective noun in use to describe them) of other kids who appeared to be heading towards the mess, with several dogs attending them. Letting out a sigh, she dressed, and headed after them. As she left, she spared a glance in the direction of the 'hermit's hut', but there was only silence. Presumably the wolf-guy – Andrew, she recalled – had either come back, or Dean had gone after him.

At breakfast, while Becky lamented the failure of her latest batch of bread to resemble loaves a bit more and bricks a bit less, the talk amongst the newcomers was of the noises they'd heard the previous night. Perhaps in recognition of that, Dean called them together afterwards, and they headed back to the building called The Den, where the Grumpy Old Men were in attendance.

"So, we followed your rules," growled Dale, "But last night, what the hell happened?"

"It sounded like somebody was bein' murdered!" yelped Donna.

"Not 'somebody'," Dean corrected, "Something. Croats. Two got in last night. What you heard was one of the security systems going off."

"Croats?" echoed Mandy fearfully, "How did zombies get in? You said we were safe here!"

"Hell of a 'security system," sniffed Dale, "What was it, you found a tiger in a safari park, and let it run loose after dark?"

"We've called you in to explain what happened," Bobby assured them, "Usually, we prefer to let people settle in for a few days before we spring this on them, but you need an explanation." He let out a deep sigh. "It doesn't get any easier to explain, but explain we will… Fergus, go make tea."

"At once, Sahib," Crowley performed an exaggerated salaam, "Will the Great White Chiefy-Chief be requiring anything else?"

"Well, if you're gonna be a smart-ass, you could at least try for internally consistent sarcasm," suggested Bobby, "Offerin' me a Muslim salutation along with a Hindi honorific don't make sense, unless you want to go to war with yourself."

"I'd pay to see that," Dean piped up brightly.

"Save me a seat," beamed Sam.

"I hate you all," mumbled Fergus, heading out with a face like a thunder cloud.

"Now, as I was sayin'," Bobby turned back to the camp's most recent arrivals, who blinked in bemusement at the exchange, "We got some explainin' to do. Last night, the 'security system' went off when we had a couple o' Croats get in – only they didn't break in, they got let in."

"By who?" demanded Kevin.

"It's a long story," Dean chuckled humourlessly, "And once the tea arrives, we'll start from the beginning."

So they did.

It didn't get any less incredible hearing it the second time around, thought Kerryn. Werewolves – two species – were real. So were demons. And so were angels. So were lots of things, really.

At Fergus's insistence, they took the demonstrations outside. Dean lost the rock-paper-scissors again; his transformation – shapeshifting, or just shifting, they called it – was just as startling as first time around.

"And this guy," Sam jerked a thumb at his brother, who turned slowly on the spot to let them see him, "Is short for a male…"

"What do you look like, then?" asked Vera, who seemed to be taking it all remarkable calmly. Dean turned a decidedly doggy grin on his brother.

"It's a fair question," shrugged Bobby. "Don't just stand there, boy, show the lady what you look like."

Sam shucked out of his clothes as casually as his brother had done – Kerryn didn't know where to look, although she noticed that people were walking back and forth around them, not batting an eyelid – and shifted.

"Wow," she breathed, looking up. And up. "You're… bigger." She cocked her head. "You're even bigger than Andrew."

The tall, chocolate brown werewolf turned to his brother and gave him a recognisable Bronx cheer. The shorter, more heavily built wolf flipped him off. Sam swiped at his brother's outstretched arm; Dean leaned in, and cuffed Sam's ear. They started a rassling bout that put Kerryn in mind of Lottie and her friend Cleo, the Golden Retriever, when they used to meet at the park and enjoy each other's company.

Bobby let out a growl that brought them up short. "The theory of domestic dogs is that, between the ears, they're like wolf pups that never grow up," the old man pronounced, "My theory of these two is that, between the ears, they're like human pups that never grew up."

After Crowley did his I'm-A-Demon demonstration, and Castiel did his I'm-An-Angel spiel, Bobby ushered them all back inside, and the Grumpy Old Men spent the morning on Things You Thought Didn't Really Exist 101 and An Introduction To What Hunters Do. Bobby called for questions, but the newcomers just sat there, stunned.

Fergus sighed. "I don't know why you ask, Bobby," he said, "It's the same thing each time, they just sit there like stunned mullets…"

"Well, it's a lot to take in," Bobby rationalised, "They'd probably benefit from refreshment. I know I would. Go make tea."

"Bobby, darling," Fergus began, "It has occurred to me before now that being the chai wallah is, for someone of my position, a little, well, _infra dig_…"

"Fergus," Bobby growled, "If you don't go make tea, your position will be six feet under, because the only dig you'll you'll get will be when I put your meatsuit to rest, havin' forcibly evicted you so I don't have to listen to your whinin'." With a martyred expression, Fergus left. "The stunned mullet thing, though," he went on, chuckling, "It's okay to be freaked out about all this stuff. Christ knows, I was. Not too many people grow up knowin' about it, and it's a shock to the system for a body if you haven't."

"Well, this is…" Dale fished for words, "… Unexpected."

"The careers counsellor sure didn't mention Hunting," noted Kevin thoughtfully.

"And vampires don't sparkle," his younger sister, Donna, sounded devastated.

"No, they don't," Sam confirmed. "As a rule, they are charismatic predators – vampires tend to turn other pretty vampires, because it's easier to lure victims in that way."

"Hey, you aint the first girl to be disappointed," grinned Dean, "We got one – he's on our side, a rare creature – and he will stand in the sun for as long as you like to demonstrate that he does not, under any circumstances, sparkle."

"Although, this one time, when Frankie was a kid, one of her school friends told her about the Twilight books, and sparkly vampires," Sam chuckled, "And the next time she saw Ian, she practically attacked the poor bastard with this body glitter stuff…"

"He was pretty good about it, really," recalled Dean, "He even ran up a tree to show willing. She was really annoyed that she couldn't go back to school and tell her friend that she was wrong."

"The point is," Bobby tried manfully to get the conversation back on topic, "That it's a lot to take in, and if you have questions later, you should feel free to ask. Don't worry about soundin' stupid – knowledge is power, and ignorance could be fatal. We've all learned that secrets lead to trouble. You wanna know something, ask."

"Last night, you said that the Croatoan virus was released," Kerryn recalled, "You said that it was released by demons."

"That's right," nodded Bobby. "It wasn't just an unfortunate accident. It was deliberate."

"But, why?" she pressed, voicing a question that had started bugging her during the night, once her brain had stopped running around in circles flapping it's hands up and down and going 'Meeeeeep!', figuratively speaking. "And if they did, why do you have Fergus here with you? Isn't he the enemy?"

"Well, you know what they say about having an identified enemy inside the tent," chuckled Dale.

"It's to do with diabolical politics," Sam told them. "Hell is a seething, resentful mass of demons, along with some Fallen – angels who sided with Lucifer. There are senior demons, the Hierarchy, they're kind of like Hell's nobility, and they are forever scheming and plotting to overthrow each other, and take power…"

"But isn't Lucifer in charge in Hell?" Kerryn pressed. "You called Fergus 'King of Hell'. And you used another name, too, you called him Crow…"

"Don't say it!" shrieked Fergus. "Don't say it out loud!"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Look, what you gotta come to terms with is, Heaven and Hell are not like the My Little Golden Books Bible stories you read. They both have their politics, and intrigues. And assholes."

"Heaven is not full of stoned people wearing Snuggies," Dean observed trenchantly, "And frankly, angels? A lot of 'em are flying dicks." He turned to Castiel. "Sorry, Cas, but they are. Not all, but a lot. Including Michael. And Raphael. And Gabriel. Huh, especially them."

"Aren't they the Archangels?" asked Donna.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Archdicks. Now,. not a lot of people know this, but Archdick Number One and Archdick Number Two, several years ago, they tried to start the Apocalypse…"

They went through another pot of tea while the G.O.M. explained that episode, including the Archangels' canine rehabilitation program.

"So, Lucifer is on sabbatical," Bobby finished, "Learnin' about humanity by being a spoiled Chihuahua. Last we heard of Michael, he was on the cover of an SPCA magazine, for receivin' another K9 bravery citation – he's onto his second canine incarnation, he was a Border Collie workin' in explosives detection, last we heard – and Raphael will no doubt be keeping as many donkeys as possible safe."

"What about Gabriel?" asked Kevin.

"He could be anywhere," Castiel replied, a little sadly. "My brother finds conflict difficult to deal with – if Father does not have him performing his duties as His senior Herald, he may be dallying in another pantheon."

"So," Sam took up the narrative, "What we got here is a Hellside coup; Dame Ghazoria's faction ousted Fergus here," he jerked a thumb at the demon, who looked positively mournful, "But another faction, Duke Belaal's, decided to make a play for power in the confusion. One of their tactics was to institute mass homicide, to boost the number of souls they could recruit in a hurry, so they decided to re-start an Apocalypse."

"The Apocalypse?" echoed Mandy.

"No, not 'the', just 'a'," corrected Bobby. "Demons don't care about what sort o' collateral damage they cause – they just want to recruit as many sinners as possible, and the best way to do that is to kill as many humans as possible. The fact that a majority will be non-sinful by-catch, destined for Heaven, don't concern them."

"We managed to stop it," Sam cut in.

"Again," Dean muttered under his breath.

"But Croatoan was already loose, so that's what we've…"

"Hang on, hang on," Dale interrupted, "You managed to stop the Apocalypse?"

"Not 'the', 'a'," Sam reminded them.

"Okay, 'an' Apocalypse," Dale went on, "I didn't pay a lot of attention during catechism classes, I'm afraid, I was usually more occupied getting caned for doodling in my book…"

"I feel your pain," sighed Fergus mournfully.

"But as I understand it, isn't Apocalypse the word used to describe the end times when the Four Horsemen are summoned?" finished Dale.

"Oh, them," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "Yeah, we dealt with them."

"It's not the first time, after all," shrugged Sam.

Vera gaped at him. "How do you 'deal with' Horsemen of the Apocalypse?" she managed.

"Well, we do got prior knowledge," Bobby replied. "War, now, we trapped him, and Castiel got a group of people together to sing 'Give Peace A Chance' at him until he agreed to demanifest."

"Famine was easy," Dean grinned, "Ronnie wasn't just a whiz in the metalwork shop, she could cook up a batch of chocolate brownies that would corrupt a saint. We cornered him, put down a whole tray made to her double-choc walnut crunch recipe, and, well, cholesterol and self-loathing did the rest."

"Pestilence was trickier," Sam mused, "It took us weeks to make a charmed net to catch him, then we had to drop him into a vat of molten hand sanitiser."

"What about Death?" Dale pressed, "You can't make death disappear; it's inevitable."

"He's actually a reasonable guy," Bobby said, "We talked over afternoon tea – more of Ronnie's brownies, her pup Sabine got her touch in the kitchen – and he agreed to work to rule, just pickin' up the people that the Croatoan zombies killed. I mean, he's a busy anthropomorphic personification, he was downright pissed about bein' dragged into some demonic handbag swingin' contest."

"So, Apocalypse averted," Sam said, "But we still got Croatoan loose."

"So, why did you offer Fergus here political asylum?" pressed Kerryn. "Why does it matter which demon rules Hell?"

Bobby took of his hat and scratched his head. "Well, the thing is," he began, "These assholes who are currently pullin' each other's pigtails, they want to get to the top of the heap, but once they get there, they got no idea how to make the place run. Fergus here was like underappreciated public servants everywhere: in the background, unnoticed, he made sure that the souls arrived, the furnaces stayed lit, the sinners became demons, the paperwork was filed, any problems were fixed, ruffled feathers were soothed. He preserved the status quo, and the made the place _work_. Once some idjit who's only interested in standing up for long enough to piss on everyone else declares himself or herself monarch of Hell, the place will remain in chaos, because they got no idea about how to make the place run. And that's bad for us."

"Because any instability in Hell will result in further conflict," Sam said gloomily, "And when that gets bad enough, it spills over into our physical reality, and manifests in all sorts of disastrous consequences."

Vera snorted. "Well, we've got the Croatoan virus," she remarked, "How much more disastrous can you get?"

"We don't know," intoned Bobby ominously, "But it's happened before. Justin Bieber? Barney and Friends? Westboro Baptist Church? That Snooki creature gettin' pregnant? The 2018 quake?"

"When all those people in California surfed to Utah," recalled Dean.

"They were all results of the politicking in Hell gettin' out of hand," Bobby informed them. "As unlikely as it seems, Obiwan Fergus here is our only hope. But if we're gonna get Hell running smoothly again, we gotta keep him alive long enough to park his ass back on the bidet of power."

"If any demon on either side finds me, they'll turn me into a steaming little pile of sulphurous gloop," whined Fergus, "Which is why we don't use my official name. You never know who might be listening."

"Well, that explains you, then," Vera said dismissively, "But what are you doing here, Mr Castiel? If you're an angel? When no others seem to be taking any interest?"

Castiel's expression was wistful. "Not all of my brothers and sisters share my… interest in humanity," he said sadly, "But I believe that our Father would want us to help if we can."

"He's kinda gotta keep himself under wraps, too," explained Bobby, "Because if the demons figure out we've got an angel here, they're gonna want to know why, and we don't want them sniffin' around. It's worrying enough that we had at least one let Croats in last night. It coulda been a spy, or it could just have been a run-of-the-mill asshole demon, testing our security. We'll have to see if we can get any intel on that."

"From where?" Kevin asked. "It's not like you could just catch a demon and ask it."

Bobby grinned. "Let's just say, we got a, uh, man on the inside," he chortled. "Now, you've seen what a demon can do, so we'll be wantin' to get anti-possession charms for you all – it would be even better if any of you would be up for havin' a tattoo, because that's permanent – then we'll make a start on findin' out where you folks will be able to fit in here. I believe there was one of you who's a teacher?"

"Can any of you use a pitchfork?" asked Fergus. "I could really use another pair of hands."

"With what?" asked Donna.

"Oh, er, well, when I'm not making tea," Fergus gazed resentfully at Bobby, "I am responsible for a vital aspect of the agricultural undertakings of this little enclave, without which the efforts to grow adequate produce to sustain the population would be considerably less fruitful…"

"He is in charge of the compost heaps," Castiel told them. "We discovered early on that Crow-"

"_Don't say it!"_ shrieked the demon.

"My apologies – we discovered that Fergus has a talent for making things decay. It is quite possibly due to his demonic nature. But his efforts to produce fertiliser are truly constructive."

"Or maybe he's just so full of shit that he's a natural at it," sniggered Dean, as Crowley drooped.

"We get him to talk to the blueberry bushes," Sam said brightly, "They like acidic soil, but we don't need to add sulphur to the soil to keep the pH down - there's just something intrinsically sulphurous about him that just makes them thrive."

"I gotta admit," Bobby added, "I've never seen a better tailored pair of overalls."

"There are days," griped Fergus, "When talking to those bushes is the only civil conversation I can get."

"Hold on," Kerryn said, "Why would demons be nosing around to start with? What's different about this camp, compared to the others? Apart from the fact that you've got werewolves, an angel, and deposed diabolical royalty?"

Bobby gave her a long look. "Well, I was hopin' we'd get to that," he said, looking at his watch. "But for now, I see that it's lunch time, after which, I will take you to meet Sister Fic, and let her explain. But that's a conversation to have on a full stomach." There was a burst of noise as the mob/herd/flock/pod of children went shrieking past, headed for the mess. "We'd better hurry, or the locusts won't leave much. Oh, don't tip your tea-leaves out, Fergus puts them in the compost."

* * *

Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Droppers-In who've been hanging around for a while will remember the story of the Archangels' rehabilitation from 'Pack Up Your Troubles'; Chihuahuas can live to 20 years, so it's entirely feasible that Lucifer is still hanging around as Luciano the amazing circus Chihuahua, retired to be the adored companion to Alfonso the circus strongman.

Ulfric is turning out to be a much more long-winded bunny than I'd envisaged - it must be all those reviews you're feeding him. So, keep it up, because Reviews are the Welcome Tea-Breaks When You Find Yourself Wrestling With The Compost Heap Of Life!


	7. Chapter 7

I doubt we'll see Benny here; in the Jimiverse, Dean and Cas's trip to Purgatory was very short, just long enough for them to decide that the food, the bars, the locals and the scenery were not at all as engaging as Crowley had made them out to be. Which is why Dean Castiel sent the King of Hell a very curt postcard from there. And, as is decreed by some law that applies in every possible universe, the postcard arrived a number of weeks after they'd returned from the trip.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

"Fic? Fic!" After lunch in the mess, Bobby led Kerryn to one of the more respectable-looking buildings – the swarm of kids and dogs tore past again on the way, in hot pursuit of Dean, who had what looked like a well-used football in one hand – and bellowed as soon as they were indoors.

"I'm right here!" a female voice bellowed back, "In your grid square, so lower the volume!"

Through a room piled high with books, paper and the sort of junk that made the place remind Kerryn of a students' office, she followed him into a larger room, notable for the many windows letting in plenty of light.

A middle-aged woman wearing jeans, a faded band tee and a nun's veil was peering carefully at the foot of a rabbit being held by a slightly build man. They both looked up and smiled.

"With you in a minute," the nun said, bending back to the rabbit, as the young man stroked its fur and soothed it.

"What is this, Fic?" asked Bobby, chuckling, "Are your patients so unhappy with your bedside manner that you've taken to practisin' on dumb animals?"

"If I wanted to practise on a dumb animal, I'd get Dean in here," the nun, Fic, dabbed carefully at the rabbit's foot. "It's just scraped, Garth, I'll clean it up, and she'll be fine."

"That's good." He gave Kerryn and Bobby a smile. "Mrs Daisykins here is about ready to have her kittens," he explained, "And she hurt her leg, trying to make herself a nice nest."

"You keep rabbits?" asked Kerryn.

"They are wonderful animals," Garth told her.

"Especially with carrot and onions," smiled Bobby happily.

"And Mrs Daisykins here is having Mr Flopsy's babies," Garth went on, "And if they grow up to be as big as him, well, you'll have to ask Castiel for some of his Chernobyl carrots."

Fic looked up. "Mr Flopsy?" she queried. "I thought he was gay."

"Not really," Garth shrugged, "Turns out, he was just horny. And Mr Twinkles didn't seem to mind, I think he just enjoyed the company. Or maybe he's bi. After all, he did manage to get Mrs Waggles pregnant."

Bobby looked bemused. "Am I really standin' here, listenin' to you idjits discuss the sex lives of the lunch propagators?" he asked.

"Well, it's only to be expected," shrugged the nun, "I don't have one of my own, so I gotta get my thrills vicariously. There you go," she patted the rabbit, "Now, just remember your Lamaze breathing, and you'll be fine." She glared sternly at Garth. "I do NOT want another call-out at zero dark hundred just because a bunny is giving birth."

"She's so mean, isn't she?" Garth cuddled the rabbit, then put it down in what looked like a pet crate made from a laundry basket and duct tape. "She's so meeeeeean..."

"Idjits," muttered Bobby. "Look, if you two have finished bonding over the bunny, can I draw your attention to an actual human. This is Kerryn, who came in yesterday with her son, Todd. Kerryn, this is Garth, rabbit wrangler and chicken chaser, and this is Felicity, aka Sister Fic, the nearest thing we got to a doctor. Or a vet, it seems."

Kerryn cocked her head. "Am I seeing things," she asked, "Or do you look like Dean?"

"He's my aggravating little brother," Fic grinned, "Although if I call him a bastard, he starts yelling about pots and kettles..."

"Are you a werewolf?" Kerryn blurted.

"No," Fic replied casually, "Although I got this." She displayed a small mark at the base of her right thumb; it was a small tattoo of a paw print. "If push comes to shove, though, I hope like hell it's not Dean; having to call him 'sire' would just be completely unacceptable, I'm afraid I'd have to tear his head off just to avoid it."

"What is that?" Kerryn asked.

"It's an arrangement we got here," Bobby explained, "One o' the things about werewolves, they can take more damage, and heal faster, than humans. Plus, they seem to be immune to Croatoan – we've had wolves get bites, and get sick as, heh heh, get sick as dogs, but they recover, they're unaffected afterwards. Just like the dogs with Hellhound heritage. This," he indicated Fic's mark, "Is an indicator that, if somethin' happens to a body, and it's the full moon, if they're damaged past saving or bit, they want to be turned." He looked rueful. "It's a long shot, but it has saved a few people. Includin' my sorry old ass."

"So werewolves make other werewolves by biting them?" pressed Kerryn.

"It has to be at the full moon," Bobby confirmed. "The offer is open to anybody here, who's of an age to make an informed choice."

"What about you, Garth?" Kerryn asked, "You don't have it."

Garth gave her a smile, "Oh, I'm a native wolf," he told her, "Home grown. We're not as big, but we try harder. And we're cheaper to feed. Plus, I don't freak the livestock out."

"And best of all," Fic added, "They can stay decently covered at all times, none of that parading around stark naked."

"There's no racism here," Bobby declared, "But we do tend to let the Old North wolves do the brawlin' – self-aware native wolves can think straight when shifted better than their larger cousins, most of 'em can still talk, more or less, and they can handle weapons in a way that's beyond most Old Norths; only one I've ever seen use a knife was Ronnie, and Sam's gettin' there, but they just don't have the dexterity. And, I'll have you know, young lady, I aint ever naked – sometimes, I just got no clothes on."

"I'd cheerfully kill to get one of either species into an MRI scanner," Fic sighed. "Or to staple a pair of shorts onto you." She turned to a jerry can over a sink, and began to wash her hands. "So, what can I do for you, Kerryn? I gotta warn you, I was only a licensed practitioner for a few years in a previous life, but I'm better with humans than I am with rabbits."

"Or chickens," added Garth, "Poor Mrs Flappity lost that toe."

"It's not what you can do for her," said Bobby with a note of triumph, "It's what she can do for you. Fic, we got ourselves an honest-to-Cas molecular biologist."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The human brain was an amazing thing, Kerryn mused over a mug of tea and some apples. Just a few days ago, she was the reluctant den-mom for a group of people who seemed particularly ill-equipped to survive a zombie apocalypse, let alone make a months-long trip across the country to a place of refuge that they weren't even sure existed. Life was perilous, unpredictable and dangerous, a state of constant vigilance, scavenging for the most basic necessities of food and gas, and always being prepared to run at a moment's notice. There was no relaxation, no certainty, no comfort. There was certainly no tea or rabbit stew.

And now, here she was, talking about her research career with Fic and Sam. It was… surreal. She hadn't talked about her work for more than a year, and it seemed like a lifetime ago that she was last in the lab.

"So, these 'killer yeasts' get their toxicity from the viruses that infect them," Sam was jotting notes as she spoke, "But they aren't themselves affected?"

"That's right," Kerryn nodded, ", But they can kill off other species or strains, and sometimes fungi. They can be pathogenic, too, but mostly they cause trouble for industries that use fermentation: brewing, winemaking, bread, even producing some medications. Sometimes it'sdue to a plasmid, which is like a little extra piece of DNA but a type of icosahedral double-stranded RNA virus is often the culprit. A single toxic yeast can kill business for a brewery for months at a time."

"Retrovirus," Fic said, when Sam raised his eyebrows. "One of the sort that the human body's immune system is least well equipped to deal with."

"You said earlier that you'd been in contact with a colleague at CDC," Sam recalled, "And there were some aspects of Croatoan that made you think of your own work."

"Well, yeah," Kerryn shrugged, "Although a lot of what was coming off the sequencer was, well, just crap. At least, it struck me as crap. Unless it's something completely new, which would make sense, if it was engineered by demons." She paused, and blinked. "Engineered by demons. I don't believe I said that. I just said 'engineered by demons'. In what universe could I ever have imagined myself saying something was engineered by demons?..."

"And this is your area of expertise," Sam mused, "So, can you grow these things in culture?"

"Can I ever," Kerryn allowed herself a smile of pride. "I got my first paper during my first year post-grad for my culture system. It's a balancing act, keeping the strain you want fed, but not letting it drown in its own crap, so to speak…"

They were interrupted by Chuck, who came running into the mess, and looked around wildly.

"Bobby! Bobby!" he yelled, clutching his ever-present clipboard like a security blanket, "Has anybody seen Bobby?"

"I think he was tinkering with the antenna," Sam replied, "Or, he was giving directions for Tiem and Zan to tinker with the antenna. Where's the fire?"

"There isn't one, yet," Chuck said in a worried voice, "But Dean took his little pack to 'help' Crow.. er, Fergus turn the compost, and frankly, His Majesty is looking pretty incendiary."

"Oh, God," sighed Sam, standing up, "What happened?"

"Well, to start with, Dean actually pulled him out before his overalls could sustain too much damage," Chuck explained, "But apparently his tie is beyond salvage. Last I saw, he was standing there, eyes red, threatening to geld Dean with his shovel, then Dean called him an ungrateful asshole, shapeshifted, and started trying to bury him again…"

Sam swore under his breath. "I'd better go break this up," he muttered, "Before one of the dogs gets to thinkin' that Dean's bein' threatened, and tears Fergus right out of his meatsuit. I don't think I could cope with that again."

"What happened?" asked Kerryn, fascinated in the it's-so-awful-I-can't-look-away fashion in which she'd once watched an episode of _Toddlers and Tiaras_ just to see what the fuss was about.

"Well, Dean thought it would be funny to draw an anti-possession sigil on Fergus's host body while it was unoccupied,"explained, Fic, "So His Majesty had to find another host."

"He found a skunk," Sam rolled his eyes, "And as if it wasn't bad enough being abused by a skunk with a British accent, he sprayed Dean. So, Dean exorcised the skunk, but Fergus jumped into one of the rabbits, and went for the throat, it was like something out of _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_. It's okay, Chuck, we'll deal with this. And then," he turned back to Fic, "I think we gotta call a meeting." He smiled at Kerryn. "Dean and Bobby need to hear about your work. I think you might have a skill set we've been looking for."

Kerryn looked confused. "Is this about Becky and her bread?" she asked, "Or Chuck and his beer?"

"Oh, it's not as important as beer," Fic waved a hand dismissively, "We just want to save the world. But I suppose first we'd better go save Fergus. Come on, Cindy, let's you and me go double-team Jan."

* * *

Like Topsy, this story just growed and growed. Clearly Ulfric the plot bunny is related to the Rabbit of Caerbannog. Or possibly to Mr Flopsy. So feed him reviews, to keep him a happy talkative little plot bunny!


	8. Chapter 8

Well, Ulfric, the little plot bunny who's been dictating this story, has been drowned out by Fergus (who's dictating 'The Streaker's Defence') for a while, but thanks to some encouragement from some of the Denizens, he's been inspired to raise his rabbity little voice, kick his brother in the leg and shove him out of the way, and give us the next chapter in this one…

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

By the time Fic and Sam got to the composting bays, what could only be called full-blown shenanigans was in progress.

Crowley was wielding his shovel viciously, hurling abuse and compost at Dean, who stood in wolf form, grinning at him, batting the shovel away, while the gaggle of children laughed and pelted them both with decomposing plant matter. The people who were around barely paused to give the scene an amused glance, then went about their business. They'd seen it all before; Crowley was a reluctant refugee, and Dean Winchester in particular was a reluctant host.

"You oaf! You pillock!" Crowley howled in outrage, "I'll have your bollocks off, you bastard!"

Dean blew a raspberry at him, and the kids redoubled their efforts, making His deposed Majesty shriek, "And you can call off your monstrous munchkins!"

Fic clapped her hands for attention. "Okay, kids," she called in a stern voice, "That's enough, Fergus is sufficiently contaminated, and the compost has had a turning it won't forget in a hurry." She waded in, grabbing at collars and arms, oblivious to the flinging of filth. "Come on, knock it off, don't make me go Sister Fic on your tushes." She turned to another woman who was standing and watching, shaking her head in amusement. "Hey, Bess, could you herd this lot off to the ablutions block?"

"Hey, I'm a werewolf, not a Border Collie!" laughed Bess, as she began to flap at the kids like her husband Garth shooing the chickens around, "Okay, people, you've had your fun, time to clean up."

There were a few disappointed noises, but she curled her lip to growl sternly, and they subsided, forming up into two lines. "All right, bathing party, to the ablutions block, by the right, quick march! One two one two one two hup hup hup!" With surprising organisation, they marched off under her watchful eye, Todd falling in with the rest.

"Okay, break it up, guys," instructed Sam.

"Sod off, Bullwinkle!" yelled Crowley as Dean flipped him off.

"Seriously, what are you idiots trying to do?" Sam waved his arms, "Kill each other?"

"That's half the plan," Crowley grimaced, hefting his shovel, "Or at least, I intend to remove him from the gene pool!"

"He's already bred," Fic pointed out.

"Then I can limit the damage!" snapped Crowley, waving his shovel threateningly, his eyes taking on a red cast.

"Uh, Fergus, watch your temper," cautioned Fic, eyeing the dogs, Xena who had shadowed Dean, and Zeus who stuck to Sam.

"Bollocks to my temper!" growled Crowley, his eyes glowing, "Bollocks to your brother, bollocks to you, bollocks to the camel you rode in on, and bollocks to this bloody compost! I'm going to set fire to… aaaaaaargh!"

Growling, the dogs leaped at Crowley, their eyes glowing as redly as his, and grabbed at his meatsuit.

"Xena! Zeus!" Sam called urgently, as Dean let out a bark of authority, but it was no good; their Hellhound heritage provoked, the dogs were in The Zone.

"Yaaaaaaaaargh!" warbled Crowley, as Xena sank her teeth into his meatsuit, then, with a strange _glollop _sound, Zeus shoved his muzzle right _through_ the substance of it.

"Oh, not again," groaned Fic, as a roiling column of black vapour smoked out of Crowley, a thin wail of _Bollooooooooooooocks!_ accompanying it as it swirled away from the collapsing body. "How many times do you have to be told? Don't provoke Jimi's descendants!"

"It's the, uh, Hellhound blood," Sam explained sheepishly to Kerryn, who stood gawping as the scene played out. "He gets his demon thang on, they get the urge to drag him back to Hell. Instinct kicks in, and they go straight for the soul. It's like a greyhound catching sight of a rabbit."

"Or Chuck catching sight of a roll of TP," added Dean, shapeshifting back to human, grinning as Zeus sniffed at Crowley's uninhabited host body, then cocked his leg on it.

"Dean!" Sam gave a strangled yelp as it looked like Dean was about to follow suit.

"What?" demanded Dean, "I'm the Alpha here, it's my prerogative to cover a lower-ranked animal's scent mark… oh, you're such a little bitch," he finished in a mutter.

"Uh, where did, um, Fergus go?" asked Kerryn in a confused voice, having followed them out of a sense of morbid curiosity.

"He won't have gone far," sighed Fic, "He'll be back."

"If only to determine whether anybody pissed on his meatsuit this time," added Sam, "At least this time we can genuinely tell him that Dean didn't…"

From the scrubby foliage a chicken suddenly made a dash across the yard to peck furiously at Dean's shin.

"Bollocks!" It squawked. "Bollocks! Bloody Winchester! Which one of you pissed on my meatsuit? _Pkaaaark!"_

"It was the dog, not Dean," Sam answered hurriedly, "Look, Fergus, you've been warned before…"

"Keep your bloody mutts under control!" clucked the chicken irritably, flapping its wings. "What are you staring at?" it demanded, rolling its beady eyes at Kerryn.

"It could be worse," noted Fic philosophically, "He could've found a skunk to possess again. Although I thought he was kind of cute, like what Pepe Le Pew would've been like with a Brit accent instead of French."

"I shall expect my usual meatsuit to be decontaminated within the hour," the chicken cackled snippily. "Within the hour." It turned and clucked menacingly at the dogs, who regarded it with mild curiosity. "Come and 'ave a go if you think you're 'ard enough," it squawked, "I'll peck your bloody eyes out, you traitorous mutts."

"Mrs Cluckity!" called an anxious voice; Garth rounded the corner, and came running at them. "Mrs Cluckity! There you are!" He glared at the chicken. "You get out of Mrs Cluckity right now, Fergus," he growled, "She should be sitting on her eggs!"

"Blame Winchester the Dumber here," clucked the chicken, "He started it, _puckpuckpKAAAARK!"_

Garth's eyes narrowed. "Get out of Mrs Cluckity right now," he repeated.

"Not until I've crapped in Mr Deanity's bed!" crowed the chicken, setting off at a high-speed flapping dash.

"Get out!" shrieked Garth, running after the chicken. "Get out_! Exorcisamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas_…"

The chicken squawking and Garth exorcising, they disappeared around a building.

"Crap," muttered Sam, "Jesus, Dean, do you have to provoke him like that?"

"I'm Chuck, and he's the TP," Dean grinned unrepentantly. "And we got the compost turned."

"Go get dressed," instructed Fic, "In fact, go wash first, then get dressed. You stink."

"You really know how to make your little brother feel good about himself," sighed Dean, fluttering his eyelashes. Fic flipped him off.

Sam turned back to Kerryn with a sheepish smile. "So, uh, why don't we go back to where we left off? Sorry about that. Sometimes, Dean happens. Now, we were asking about…"

He was interrupted by the sound of running feet, and Frankie calling for him.

"Dad! Dad!" She came charging around a corner, and pulled up. The Winchesters were all on the alert instantly, and Sam barked an enquiry at her. "It's Mom!" she replied breathlessly, "Kevin's got 'em on the radio!"

The look of relief that passed across Sam's face was unmissable as he suddenly turned and sprinted away. It was Dean who barked another enquiry.

"They're headed back now," Frankie went on, "But it sounds like they're comin' in hot…"

Dean swore, then turned to follow his brother, Frankie at his heels. "Come on," Fic grabbed Kerryn's arm, "Sounds like this could get ugly fast."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

In a shack not far from The Den, a young man of Asian ancestry sat surrounded by electronics detritus, in front of an aged radio set, with Sam hanging over his shoulder, while Bobby and Frankie stood by, looking concerned. In a corner, a large man who looked like a Hell's Angel sat on an exercise bike that trailed wires, pedalling vigorously. He gave them a cheerful wave, but didn't slow down.

"I got 'em," Kevin said, frowning at a switch, then giving the set a hefty thump, "I got 'em, just give me a sec."

The younger guy fiddled with a couple of dials, and poked at a couple of switches. A speaker crackled into life, and a woman's voice, backed by sounds of gunfire and swearing, spoke calmly but quickly.

"… calling The Den, Ramble On calling The Den, do you read, this is Ramble On calling The Den…"

"It's Mom!" chirped Frankie.

"Ramble On, this is The Den," Kevin spoke into the handset, "You're breaking up, but we gotcha back."

Sam grabbed the handset. "Kelly, where are you? What's happening?"

"We're about twenty miles out, and we got company," the woman's voice replied, "We hit a swarm of 'em this morning, a big one – that asshole Fergus hasn't been chatting with his old school friends, has he?"

"Right now he's a chicken," Sam said distractedly, "What's your status?"

"We're all intact, more or less, hang on," she broke off and gunfire sounded again. "Suck on that! Tell Fic to break out the plaster bandages, though, we got a couple of broken bones…"

"I'll get on it," Fic interjected.

"… And we think Jody got bitten, but there's a lot of blood, we can't say for sure…"

A chorus of groans and swearwords went up in the small room.

"She's asked for you, Bobby," the woman said. Bobby muttered something about rampant idjitry.

"What about the mission?" pressed Dean tensely.

"Viktor Frankenstein will have a whole new bunch of toys," came the reply. There was a general murmuring of relief. "You wanna send the UAVs for a pick-up?"

"That's a negative," Dean answered, "They'll be too busy with air support."

"Dean, this is important…" the voice began.

"So are you, missy," snapped Bobby gruffly, "You just get your asses back here and we'll have it soon enough."

"Who died and made you Alpha, old man?" demanded the voice. Bobby curled his lip and growled, which provoked a crackling laugh from the speaker. "Will do. OW! Hey, we're not in a cruiser here! You do know your driving sucks, right?" There was the sound of cursing in the background. "See you soon! Ramble On out."

Kevin flicked switches on the cobbled-together set, and nodded to the man on the bike. "Okay, you can pull the plug, Beverly," he said.

Kerryn couldn't help herself. "Beverly?" she blinked, "Your name is Beverly?"

"Well, it seems silly to answer to 'Mad Dog' anymore," the large man shrugged, "Given the company." He unplugged the exercise bike, and picked it up as if it was a toy. "You're new, right? Decided on the anti-possession tattoo thing yet? 'Cause if you do, I need notice, so I can pedal enough to charge up the batteries, don't wanna run out of gun halfway through…"

"Beverly is our tattooist," Bobby explained hurriedly, "But that can wait – we got a situation on our hands."

"What's happening?" asked Kerryn, worried by the tone of the conversation she'd overheard.

"We've got people coming back to camp," Kevin said, "And they're bringing company."

"Sometimes the Croats form these swarms," Sam explained, and Kerryn nodded; she'd seen it, and had fled from several of them with her group of unlikely refugees. "Sounds like they've got one following them. So we gotta get ready to repel boarders."

"I have to find Todd," Kerryn said promptly, "I have to find my son…"

"He'll be safe," Dean told her, "I promise you that, he'll be in the safest place we can put him."

"He's my son!" she repeated desperately, "He's just a child…"

"And he'll be safe, with all the other kids," Dean growled, clearly not ready to argue the point. "You get your gun, and get to the fence."

She was about to argue, but saw the look on his face, and subsided.

"You come with me," Beverly said firmly, "You got a weapon?"

"Well, yeah," Kerryn replied reluctantly, "But I'm hopeless with it."

"So am I," Beverly confided grimly, "But if you can pull a trigger, you're on the fence." He headed out the door with the exercise bike under one arm. "Get your gun, then come back here, then we'll get you some ammo." He smiled humourlessly. "Look at it this way; the target practice will be good for both of us."

* * *

Golly gee, looks like we might get some action next chapter. No doubt Leahelisabeth will be campaigning for some of the Croats to band together and shove Sam into a box. Why zombies would do that, I don't know...

Leave reviews, because the are the Megaphone That Lets Overshadowed Plot Bunnies Make Themselves Heard In The Fanfic Pandemonium Of Life!


	9. Chapter 9

And to think, I thought that Ulfric the plot bunny was only going to give us a few chapters – three or four at most – of Werechesters. I blame the Denizens. Or whoever has been feeding him plot bunny Sustagen. Or steroids. I have this mental picture of somebody feeding him Belgian praline in the style of fattening a goose for pate fois gras.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

There was no panic as the word spread while Kerryn fetched the gun she loathed so much.

"This way," Beverly instructed, heading for what Kerryn recognised as the metalwork shed. In a small separate shed at one end, a darkly handsome man was sorting ammunition. He smiled when he saw Kerryn, and she was startled to see that his teeth were somewhere between 'impressively enormous' and 'enormously disturbing'. She settled on 'disturbingly impressive'.

"This is Arjan," Beverly made a quick introduction.

"Ah, new person!" Arjan turned his astonishing dentition on her, "Welcome to my magazine! What calibre?" He peered briefly at her gun. "Ah, 9 mil, yes?"

"You can tell just by looking?" she asked, as he handed over some rounds.

"I was Hunter, long time ago," Arjan shrugged, "Prefer to shoot with camera, but like falling off hog, something never forgotten."

"It's 'falling of a log', Arjan," chuckled Beverly.

"I grew up in Albania," Arjan replied, "I know about falling off hog. More memorable than falling off log. _ Gjysh_, Grandfather, not yell at you for trying to ride log in first place. Is good ammo," he assured Kerryn, "Sabine made, very good, as good as her _Nene_, her mom," he smiled alarmingly again, "Go give 'em hell, cowboy!"

"Uh, thanks," Kerryn said uncertainly, then, because she couldn't help herself, "Um, Arjan, are you a, uh, werewolf too?"

"Werebeaver," Arjan told her proudly. "Built dam that supplies water. Working with Dale to see if small hydro-electrics plant can be added. Bite just as nasty as _njerijujk_, but not tear heads off. Beat to death with tail. Also select and fell best building timber or firewood."

"If you don't want to be turned by a werewolf, Arjan will bite you if you get Croat-bit at the full moon," Beverly added, showing her his right hand. At the base of the thumb there was a small tattoo of a tree.

Kerryn stared at him. "You want to be a werebeaver?" she asked incredulously.

"I like swimming," shrugged Beverly, "And I'm a vegetarian."

"Plenty of time to decide," Arjan waved airily, "Take time to make up mind. Aha, my friend Vera!" Kerryn turned to see her fellow new arrival octogenarians Vera and Dale approach, the elderly lady armed with a shotgun that looked almost bigger than her. "Ditch callow youth and marry me," he added.

"None of your cheek, Mr Teeth," chuckled the old lady, "Tool me up, Arjan."

"I love assertive woman," sighed Arjan, turning to fish for cartridges.

"I thought we were looking for somewhere with less excitement than the road?" asked Dale, smiling as Arjan continued to flirt shamelessly with his wife.

"Me too," was the best she could manage.

"Somebody said that Fergus possessed a chicken," he mentioned dubiously.

"I'm afraid so," sighed Kerryn, wondering if the deposed King Of Hell had gotten as far as crapping in Mr Deanity's bed.

"You know, the whole demons possessing animals might explain it," Dale went on, "Our neighbour, lovely lady, God knows what's happened to her now, she had this Chihuahua, and I'd swear, it was spawned by Satan himself."

"Most Chihuahuas possessed very early in life," interjected Arjan. "Not sure why _magjicstrice_, witch, traditionally have black cat; should be small yappy dog, in occult handbag, maybe…"

"Todd!" Kerryn broke off when she spotted a line of children trooping purposefully across the compound after Bess the native werewolf, her son amongst them. He turned, and gave her a wave, but kept going. She broke away, following him.

"Todd!" She caught up with them, just as they arrived at what were apparently the chicken and rabbit pens, where Garth was calmly but quickly putting the small creatures into an array of improvised carry boxes. "What the hell are you doing?" she demanded.

"It's Operation Poughkeepsie," a small girl intoned seriously as Garth handed her a chicken in a box.

"It's just a precaution," Bess told her, "But we do this for the kids, if we have a big swarm head this way." She began to herd the kids with animals towards a shed. "Okay, let's move it along!"

The shed proved to be holding a faded school bus, with an array of improvised fortifications, including a huge ram-scoop on the front.

"Ready to rock and roll!" announced Garth cheerfully, bringing up the rear as the last of the kids arrived.

"What the hell is this?" demanded Kerryn, watching as Todd lined up, carefully holding a chicken in a box, while Garth boarded the bus. She wondered vaguely if it was Fergus.

"Plan Z," Bess explained with brutal frankness, "If it all turns to shit out there, we blow the fence…"

"RJ and Kevin rigged me a real big red button!" Garth declared happily, indicating the stereotypical trigger system on the dash as he started the engine. It turned over easily; the vehicle was clearly kept in good working order. Garth nosed it carefully out of the shed, and the kids began to file aboard.

"…And we get them the hell out of here, and head for the muster point," finished Bess.

"It was Dean's idea," Garth called. "Keeping the kids safe is our top priority."

"But… the Croats are so fast," stuttered Kerryn, "What happens if you get overrun, and you're not quick enough?"

"Oh, we got anti-Croat measures," smiled Garth, as Bess let out an urgent howl. "In fact, I think you've met one of 'em…"

There was an answering howl, louder and deeper.

A huge male werewolf – the one from the previous night, Kerryn realised, the guy called Andrew – burst onto the scene, slavering and growling. To her surprise, the children raised a cheer as he let out a savage snarl, and leaped onto the roof of the bus, where he crouched, peering suspiciously into the distance from his vantage point, rumbling menacingly.

"He'll stay there unless they need him at the wall," Bess explained fondly, "He's the best protection they could have. If it comes to it, he'll hold 'em off while we get away."

"This plan is insane," said Kerryn, trying to keep the shrillness out of her voice and not quite succeeding, "You have no idea if it will work!"

"We know it will work," Bess told her, quiet heat in her voice, "Because we've used it once before, and it worked." She gave Kerryn a lancing glare. "Now, get to the fence, with everybody else." She gave a short bark up to the monster on the roof, and boarded the bus.

Kerryn stood, dumbstruck for a moment, until she heard a low growl, and looked up.

The towering wolf was crouched, glaring at her through narrowed eyes, his lip curled to reveal his enormous teeth; she didn't speak any Canine, but the message was clear.

_Go somewhere you can be useful._

"Look out for my boy," she whispered, before setting off to find Beverly.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"So, if we've got a convoy, we gotta try to clear the road," Beverly explained, pointing out the land outside the fence where they stood on rickety ramparts. People who had apparently been working in the cultivated areas outside the walled camp were coming back through the gate, each person checking in with a guy and patting the elderly Labrador with him on the way in.

"He's not much of a guard dog," she remarked, watching the grey-muzzled old dog greet each return with a tail wag.

"Not if you're a human," Beverly acknowledged, "But if we get a demon trying to sneak in, the dogs are way better at picking that up than anybody else. Hey, didn't you ever see 'The Terminator'?" he chuckled. "Old Buddy may be nearly blind now, but there's nothing wrong with his nose. It's a good job for him – he only has to be awake for a short time a few times a day, the rest of the time, he likes to snooze over there, see that sunny spot?..."

A sudden thought struck Kerryn. "Lottie!" she yelped, turning to leave, "She wasn't with Todd! I have to find her! She'll be confused, and…"

"She'll be with me," said a firm voice behind her.

She turned and looked down. Dean was wearing a pair of board shorts (which, that treacherous inappropriate little voice in her hindbrain said, didn't actually make him look any less attractive than when he was stark naked), and was surrounded by a pack of dogs.

There were big dogs, there were small dogs, there were pedigree dogs, there were mutts. They were all strangely silent, standing with ears cocked and tails waving gently. Standing next to the one Kerryn recognised as Xena, Dean's dog, was Lottie.

Dean followed her gaze, and grinned. "The idea of Xena gettin' a galpal her own size and gangin' up on Zeus is kinda funny," he confided, "But she'll be with me. If it comes to it, the dogs come out with the wolves."

"She's not a Hellhound!" snapped Kerryn.

"Neither are any of these," he indicated the pack milling around him.

"She could be killed!" Kerryn pressed.

"So could any of us," Dean shrugged, as if he didn't think the idea was terribly important.

"Don't you dare drag my dog into this!" Kerryn climbed down from the platform, "What am I supposed to tell my son if she gets killed? How the hell do I…"

She found her voice drying up as Dean gave her a stare.

"You'll tell him that she died protectin' people," he said with quiet authority, "You'll put her name on the wall, and you'll grieve. Everybody who can fight, fights. Species don't matter." His face softened. "She wants to fight. They all do."

"And I suppose she told you that, did she?" Kerryn asked sourly.

"Actually, she did," he answered casually, "I couldn't make her if she didn't want to. Like any of these guys. Their people are important to them." He let out a sharp huffing sound, and a small fluffy dog, with snaggled teeth, one eye missing and patches of fur gone where scars crossed his hide, darted forward, barking eagerly, looking every inch like a dog spoiling for a fight.

Kerryn's jaw dropped. "That's… is that a Pomeranian?"

"That's not just a Pomeranian," Dean grinned, "That's Timothy, the Pom of Death."

"What is he supposed to do?" she asked incredulously, "Get himself eaten by a Croat, and choke it on the way down?"

"He'd probably just chew his way out if one was dumb enough to try it," mused Dean, "Don't be fooled, this little guy is a killer. Well, a mangler, certainly."

"You should've seen what he did to the moron who tried to rob my tattoo parlour this one time," Beverly called down, "He took fingers off. Cops were laughing so hard they could hardly call for a paramedic."

"That… Timothy… is _your_ dog?" Kerryn felt her mind boggle.

"Oh, he's my wingman," grinned Beverly, "You should've met his mom, Cindi – this guy tried to stand over my shop once, and he brought his yard dog, part mastiff, part alligator, and she just about tore his balls off."

"Yeah, I've met women like that, too," mused Dean.

"But he's got a job to do," Beverly continued. "Speaking of which," he looked out over the fence, "Looks like everybody's inside."

"Cool." Dean made his way rapidly to the fencing rampart, and peered down at the main gate. Buddy and his handler went back inside. "Prime it, RJ!" he yelled.

Kerryn clambered back up to see RJ, Dean's son, she remembered, head out with Frankie, Sam's daughter, and start fiddling with the scrub alongside the rutted track leading to the gate.

"What are they doing?" she asked.

"Just rigging up some insurance," Dean grinned, "I blame Bobby, for lettin' Frankie read chemistry books when she was in grade school…"

A long, urgent howl sounded to their left; Kerryn saw a figure on a high roof, and the glint of a scope sight. Down below, RJ and Frankie howled back, and high-tailed it back to the gate. There were a number of answering howls from different directions.

"Looks like we got company on the way," Dean hefted his rifle and jumped down from the fence as Vera arrived with Dale, demanding help to get up to the improvised rampart. "Show the youngsters how it's done, Vera," he grinned.

"I'll bag me a big one," the old lady declared, looking out over the fence, and carefully putting on her glasses. Dean loped off, the dogs following him, presumably to find his own vantage point.

The rumble of engine noise came to them, and another sound, a swelling dull pattering noise. It sounded like an approaching stampede.

Dale sniffed. "Uh, is somebody up here even more frightened than me?" he asked.

"Blame Winchester the Elder's dog," griped Fergus, hauling himself up to the fence, carrying a longarm, whilst checking an antique-looking revolver then replacing it in his pocket. "I hate this bit," he grumbled, peering through the sight, "It's like the scene in 'Zulu'. Do you remember that scene in 'Zulu'? I think Michael Caine might've been about seven years old when he made that film. All the historical accuracy of 'Troy', mind you, but… oh, look, here comes the refugees from Isandlwana…"

A jeep showing signs of hard wear and a lack of panel beating shot around a corner and into view, followed by three other vehicles in a similar state of dilapidation. Gunfire cracked from the pick-up brinking up the rear.

"…And hot on their heels, here come Cetshwayo's forces…"

Kerryn's stomach turned over as she saw the first of the swarm of Croatoan zombies in pursuit of the vehicles, and she wondered if she might lose her breakfast.

"Just our luck, really," sighed Fergus, lifting the rifle to his shoulder and peering down the sight, "We get a zombie apocalypse, we couldn't get civilized lurching zombies a la Hammer Horror, nooooooo, we had to get these bastards on speed, seriously, does nobody watch classic movies anymore?"

The first crack of rifle shots indicated that the swarm was coming into range for the higher powered weapons.

"It's just bad manners, really," Fergus continued to complain, cocking the weapon and taking aim. "So, does anybody know the words to 'Men of Harlech'?"

* * *

Because everybody loved Arjan the werebeaver from 'Child's Play'.

If you haven't ever seen the 1964 movie _Zulu_, WHY NOT? Go and find it and watch it. It's faaaaaabulous. I think Michael Caine was actually about 30 when he made it, but he looks impossibly young. It has a line in it that must qualify as a contender for the Top Five Immortal Understatements Made In Films of all time: 'Yes, sir, the gentleman has a bottle'...

Send reviews, because Reviews Are The Adorably And Unexpectedly Feisty Dog Protecting You When You Would Otherwise Be Assailed By The Unpleasantly Solid Parsnip Of Mundane Reality!


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"Just think what the Olympics would look like if these guys had been eligible," commented Beverly, gesturing towards the swarm of Croats tailing the group of vehicles.

"I didn't believe it until I saw it for the first time," Kerryn replied, feeling her knees start to do the jelly-wobbling thing. "I mean, there was that research group in Dallas that did some modelling and postulated that theoretically a human could reach a speed of 35 – 40 miles an hour, but these…" she trailed off, words failing her, "They can do at least 50, we've seen them, we've been chased by them, and they can keep it up for miles…"

The swarm continued to grow, shifting and moving like a single mass of malevolent intent. The crack of gunfire from the approaching vehicles became louder.

"I've wondered whether it's some sort of pheromone," Kerryn went on faintly, fighting down the little voice in her head that was screaming at her to get the hell off the fence, grab her son, and drive very fast in the opposite direction, "The way they congregate, a group of them gets together, and a group attracts more, and the bigger the group gets, the more it attracts, so it gets bigger, and attracts more in some sort of feedback loop…"

"Just like screaming girls converging on a rumoured boy band sighting," nodded Crowley, "And nearly as scary."

"That's a real big one," Vera noted warily, taking in the size of the seething crowd. "That's bigger than any we've seen on the way here."

"That's what she said, folks," muttered Crowley without humour, hefting his rifle and peering down the sight.

"It's bigger than any we've seen here, too," Beverly said, his voice holding a note of contained worry. "Jesus, they're still coming…"

"Can't you do something, you know, demonic to them, Fergus?" asked Dale.

"Oh, I probably could," shrugged Crowley, "Of course, if I do that, I might as well put up a neon sign reading 'Here I am, come and get me!' And if the Hierarchy of Hell come stampeding through to get to me, they won't even blink as they go through you squishy mortals like a curry through an English football thug…" he squeezed off a shot; a Croat in the vanguard of the swarm fell, and disappeared under the pounding feet of the multitude behind it. "Fuck me, they're not even slowing down – it's that Sheriff woman, she drives like a lunatic at the best of times, she's going to shoot right through the fence on the other side… slow down you stupid bint!" he shouted, taking another shot. "Oi, Bullwinkle!" he called up to the tower where another rifle was cracking shots out, "You better get to the gate, before Madam Dredd caves it in!"

Kerryn let out a small shriek as she saw Sam Winchester drop from the top of the tower; by the time he hit the ground, he was no longer human, but had assumed his werewolf form, landing on his huge hind legs, and loping for the gates, where two wolves who were clearly younger were already waiting.

"They're not ditching the Croats," Kerryn said, her voice shaking, glancing back to where the armoured bus sat idling, "If they open the gate…"

"Some will get in," Beverly finished grimly, "That's why we gotta get as many as we can to start with. Once the gates close again, we keep shooting inside." He raised his own weapon as more gunfire started to ring out. With a wince, she pointed her gun at the onrushing horde, and gingerly pulled on the trigger.

"No, no, no," sighed Crowley, "Good grief, if you don't keep your eyes open how can you see your target? Look," he put down his rifle, and took out his own revolver, "Hold it like this… no, don't cross your thumbs, like this, not so high, you'll get slide-bit, that's it, now, straighten your arms, better, now, squeeze, don't pull, don't shut your eyes, darling, and don't duck, they're not firing back, elbows straight, now, pick a target and lead it a bit, take a deep breath, and let it out, and when it's halfway gone, squeeze…"

The jolt was less than she'd been braced for as the gun fired. "Did I hit it?" she quavered.

"At the very least, you scared the shit out of it," he assured her, picking up his rifle again. "You'll have plenty of practice very very shortly, I think." He let off another shot. "Seriously, love, be careful with that thing once we start shooting inward, don't hit anybody, I've noticed that getting shot tends to make these people so terribly cranky."

The jeep leading the other vehicles honked urgently as the gunfire from the fence began in earnest. In a cheerful tenor voice, Crowley began to sing.

A grinding protestation of the large metal gate sliding open drew Kerryn's glance: Sam and the two younger werewolves were pushing it open, and she felt her hands start to shake.

"They're going to get in here," she said in a hitching voice, "They're going to get in here…"

"Then we'll stop them," Beverly said, "Just concentrate on killing as many as you can before then."

Men of Harlech on to glory," sang Crowley, "This shall ever be your story, keep these sacred words before ye…" he blinked, and stared hard at the swelling mass of zombies. "Oh, bugger!" He jumped down from the rampart, and sped away in the direction of the gate. As he ran, he shouted "Father Karras! Father Karras!" at the top of his voice.

"What the hell?" wondered Dale, pausing long enough to watch him go, "What does a demon want with a priest?"

"We don't have a priest," Beverly informed them grimly, "What it means is, out there," he waved a hand at the swarm, "We got a demon."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The gate open just enough to let the largest truck in, Sam barked sharply at his nephew and his daughter, then let out a short howl to his brother and practically-father. Dean and Bobby were still in human form, firing at the Croats.

"We'll be down in a minute," Dean assured him, "Just get that gate shut as soon as they're all in!"

A short bark behind him announced the presence of Sabine. Already in wolf form, she crouched, the large knife in her paw, poised and still, but reeking of savagery and imminent mayhem.

A pang of sadness shot through Sam. _You are your dam's pup,_ he told her. Sabine had inherited her mother's capacity to wield a weapon in a way few Old North werewolves could ever achieve.

_You are your den-dam's pup,_ she answered, acknowledging their connection.

RJ bounded to her side, and butted against her affectionately. _Our pack is strong. It is time to Hunt._

Sabine cuffed him away good-naturedly. _We will Hunt,_ she agreed, as Frankie barked sharply in agreement.

As they turned their attention back to the rapidly approaching convoy and the swarm following it, a voice cut through the sound of gunshots. "Father Karras!" it was Crowley. "Father Karras! Father bloody Karras!"

"Are you sure, asshat?" Bobby called down, without even taking his eyes off the swarm he was firing at.

"Of course I'm bloody sure!" Crowley spat, "I'd hardly be haring around down here at ground level if it wasn't absolutely necessary!"

"That's twice in a couple of days," Bobby noted, "That aint a coincidence. Dean, you make you're your pack gets hold of that asshole if it gets in here. When this shitstorm is over, I think we gotta check in with our man on the inside."

Dean snarled a guttural warning to the pack of dogs milling below him; the eyes of the ones with Hellhound blood began to glow faintly red.

The horn of the lead vehicle sounded again, and the battered jeep approached the gate. Crowley let out a small shriek, and scuttled off to get back to a safer vantage point.

Sam and RJ put their arms to the gate in preparation. Sabine hefted her knife, Frankie crouched, claws and teeth bared.

The lead vehicle made it through the gate.

And Hell followed.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Kerryn almost dropped her gun with fear as the tide of Croats broke against the wall in a wave, and pressed in with the vehicles entering the fortified compound. She fired as carefully as she could into the heaving mass of Croats that crowded around the convoy, clawing and slavering at the occupants, as more poured in while the two male werewolves struggled to close the gate against the torrent of zombies. Werewolves and dogs darted into the swarm, claws and teeth tearing, as the gate closed agonisingly slowly.

There was a flash of shiny fur, and a large creature with buck teeth like the tines on an excavator bucket and claws to match suddenly threw itself into the throng, turning and swinging its massive tail like a club, scattering and crushing the Croats trying to get to Sam and RJ.

"There's too many!" Kerryn screamed, arms shaking as she aimed her weapon down at the zombies trying to get to those on the ramparts.

"Keep shooting!" Beverly screamed back, "Just keep shooting!"

A Croat that had once been a tall man snarled up at her, and jumped to grab at the base of the rickety structure she stood on. She let out another scream, then felt a looming presence behind her.

Kerryn's scream cut off as a large grey creature swooped out of nowhere, grabbed the zombie, and carried it aloft, before tearing its head off with long granite arms, then dropping it before diving into the press of seething corruption to seize another. A second winged creature, larger than the first, dived into the swarm, picking up a Croat by the head in each taloned hand, before swooping up into the air and bashing their heads together until they disintegrated.

"Don't just stand there gawping, love," yelled Fergus in her ear, suddenly reappearing beside her, "Tiem and Zan will do what they can to help, but they can only deal with one at a time."

"They're the biggest damned pigeons I've ever seen," declared Dale, letting off another blast.

"Eat lead, asshole!" bellowed Vera, decapitating a Croat with her next shot.

The werewolves and the werebeaver and the dogs savaged the swarm, the humans on the ramparts and those in the vehicles fired on them, and the gargoyles picked them off one at a time, but the heaving waves of slavering bodies barely seemed to diminish. The seething mass moved like a multicellular animal, seeking prey, surging this way and that heedless of the bullets tearing into it, looking for easier pickings.

It looked as if the defenders might just be getting the upper hand, penning the swarm in with the corpses of the destroyed Croats, when a tendril of the ghastly mass broke away and spilled through a gap in the piling corpses and the field of fire, as if under the influence of a warped version of gravity.

But it wasn't a physical force that was drawing them; in an awful moment of clarity, Kerryn understood what was attracting them.

The Croats were heading for the bus.

Where her son was.

Without thinking, she clambered down from the tottering structure of the fence, screaming Todd's name, and ran to get her boy.

* * *

Damned plot bunnies; juggling more than one at a time is always a guarantee of discombobulation, so feed Ulfric reviews so we can get this one finished as quickly as possible - after all, Reviews are the Perfectly Timed Gargoyle Intervention Come To Whisk Away The Ghastly Individuals Who Assail You With The Unpleasantly Solid Parsnip Of Mundane Reality!


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

When he saw one of the newcomers – Kerryn, it was – scramble down from the fence and head in the direction of the breakaway group of Croats, Dean let out a bark of frustrated comprehension.

_She doesn't know,_ Bobby growled at his back, the grizzled old wolf lashing out at a zombie.

_I have to get to her..._ Even as he snarled it, Dean knew he couldn't; he was in the middle of a swarm, and there were more outside the gates. It was the sort of gut-wrenching in-the-moment math that commanders had been doing since combat was invented; he had to be where he could do the most good, and save the most people.

_Not your fault,_ gruffed Arjan, crushing another Croat, then turning to sink his teeth into the one that came scrambling over it.

_The way of things,_ echoed Sam from where he and RJ finally got the gate closed against the inpouring of corrupted bodies, then began mauling the unrelenting onslaught.

With a yowling snarl that was part anger and part despair, Dean tore his attention away from a woman who was quite possibly a lost cause, and attacked the next Croat that came at him with renewed savagery. It was inevitable, and they'd deal with the aftermath the way they always did, but it still hurt, every time they lost somebody, every damned time.

Kerryn was as good as dead. If the swarm didn't get her, the beserk werewolf, who could hardly tell friend from foe any more at the best of times, let alone when he was crazed with bloodlust, would tear her to pieces along with the Croats in his mindless rage. And they needed her brain. Fate, Destiny, Karma, one of those smug disembodied sonsofbitches had dropped a molecular biologist, a molecular biologist who knew about viruses, into their lap. They needed her brain, and she was taking it to where it could end up being bashed right out of her head. That figured. That just fucking figured. It was Winchester luck writ large.

He hoped that her son wasn't watching when it happened.

From across the compound, he heard the raging howl indicating that his den-sire was in The Zone, and he hoped that this wouldn't be the time he finally had to build a pyre for his den-sire, either because the Croats pulled him down, or, as the pack Alpha, Dean finally had to put him out of his misery for the safety of everyone in the camp.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Powered by terror and a ferocious instinct to protect her child, Kerryn stumbled after the Croats on shaking legs. She fumbled with a new ammo clip, clumsily dropping the empty one as she ran, ducking around sheds and cabins, trying to flank the group and get to the bus before they did. What the hell she thought she would do when she got there she didn't know, all she knew was those monsters were headed for her son, and she would damned well beat each and every one of them to death with her specs case or die trying if that was the only option available…

Trying not to let her ragged breathing or the small terrified sounds she was making get too loud, she rounded the ablutions block, and caught sight of the bus. Garth had nudged it closer to the fence, between two stacks of what looked like packing crates. If they did have to blow a hole in the fence and leave, the gap through which any zombies could follow would be narrow enough to slow down a swarm, make it crowd in on itself.

It didn't occur to her that it wouldn't just act as a baffling to slow a swarm of zombies, but it would also act as a funnel…

She let out a breathy shriek as the monster on top of the bus let out a savage roar, then shot from the top of the bus and tore into the swarm like a wrecking ball made of chainsaws.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

As the Croats gradually fell, the pack of dogs kept them bunched in where the defenders could cautiously pick them off. The people in the convoy were eventually able to get out of their vehicles and join the mop-up, except for Jody and Kelly, whose jeep was nearly disappeared under a pile of dead zombies. Arjan the werebeaver broke off, and began to drag ragged corpses from the vehicle until they were able to get the passenger door open.

"Thanks, Bucky," grinned Kelly, hefting her gun and moving to provide cover as he clambered around to clear the driver's door, where Jody was swearing a blue streak. "Some homecoming party, huh?"

The werebeaver made a clucking sound, and dragged away another corpse.

"I'm all right," griped Jody, eventually emerging, covered in blood, "I'm all right. It's not mine. Well, most of it's not mine. Stop fussing, you buck-toothed mother hen, you're worse than Fic. Go on, go squash some Croats."

Still clucking in dispproval, Arjan returned to the clean-up.

It had degenerated into a scrapping brawl when Kevin Tran called down from one of the towers.

"We still got uninvited guests outside!"

Bobby briefly shifted back to human, and called back,

"How many Croats?"

"Uh," Kevin peered down into the seething, slavering mass battering against the gate and the nearby fence, "I think… all of them?"

"Well, don't just stand there, idjit," bellowed Bobby, "Blow it!" With that, he shifted back to his battle-scarred wolf form, and lashed out at a staggering zombie.

With a look of trepidation, Kevin grabbed the rope of the fire bell, and wincingly rang it as hard as he could for a full ten seconds before counting to five, and closing the connector switch.

Outside the gates, the earth heaved.

"I hate that bit," grumbled Beverly, putting a bullet into another Croat.

"Oh, yuck!" complained Crowley, as small pieces of zombie rained down, "Yuck! Seriously! Did they have to do that? First dog's piss, now cream of Croat soup! It's just so… uncivilised!" He turned an appealing look on Vera. "I don't suppose that anybody who came in with you happened to be a trained dry cleaner?"

"Don't be so prissy," the elderly lady snapped back, reloading, "How is the King of Hell so damned prissy?"

Crowley stared at her. "Look, I don't think it's fair to be calling me 'prissy' just because I don't enjoy being basted with zombie goo!" he insisted indignantly, "All I'm saying is, if the world is going to visit that woman, you know, Helena Handcart, whoever she may be, that doesn't mean that we can't try to maintain as much civilisation as possible, and…"

"Oh, grow a dick, Fergus," Vera said dismissively, snapping the weapon shut and hefting it to blast another zombie.

"You don't know the half of it," he muttered, lifting his own weapon again.

"I think it's fair to say that nobody actually enjoys the rain of goo thing," Beverly cut in, playing peacemaker, "But we've established that the virus can't be transmitted that way. It's gotta be through a bite. Kerryn can explain it, no doubt, right, Kerryn?" He turned, and looked around anxiously. "Kerryn? Where is she? Where did she go?"

"She headed that way," Dale pointed, then shot another Croat. "Wanted to get to Todd, wherever he is."

Beverly and Crowley exchanged a look. "Well," said His Deposed Majesty eventually, "It was nice knowing her."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It was not the systematic and considered elimination of the corrupted creatures that the other werewolves were doing to eliminate the danger as quickly as possible; it was mindless, chaotic slaughter.

Kerryn watched, transfixed, as the gigantic wolf grabbed Croats, and tore them to pieces. Gore and pieces of corroded flesh flew, spattering the ground and the piles of crates, and coating him in the red morass. One was seized and had its arms ripped off; it gnashed at him before he grabbed it by the head, and used its skull to bash in the face of another. The one behind those staggered at him; the wolf punched a clawed fist through its chest, and ripped upwards, taking the head off as the upper body split in a spray of pulp. Another tottered away in a grotesque parody of bewilderment, tripping in its own guts as they trailed out of its torn carcass where it had been ripped open from groin to chin. The next, he sank his teeth into its neck and tore its head off as his claws shredded the torso.

The whole time, the wolf kept up a savage, despairing snarling and howling.

Still gripped by the desperate need to get to her son, she searched for a route to the bus that wouldn't take her directly into the crowd of zombies. The stacks of crates offered the best possibility, she decided, they were not smooth-sided, and looked climbable enough.

She made her way around a couple more buildings, peeking around corners as she drew closer to the bloody mayhem playing out just feet away. The Croats crowded in on each other in their eagerness to get to the bus, not learning at all from the grisly fate befalling those going before them.

The swirl and movement of the swarm shuffled in the other direction, and she decided that it was the best chance she was going to get. Gripping her gun tightly, Kerryn darted out from her hiding place, and ran for the crates.

To her credit, she almost made it.

Physical activities of any sort had never been her strong suit, so when a combination of hurry and rough ground made her stumble, she ended up sprawled awkwardly on the open space. Whether it was the movement or just her presence, a couple of the Croats who had been pressing in on the rampaging werewolf broke away from the horde, and began to stagger towards her. And where a couple led, more always followed.

The crates were bigger than they'd looked from a distance, and Kerryn realised with fright that she wouldn't have time to scramble up far enough to get away from the zombies, so she raised her gun, and, trying to steady her shaking arms, started shooting.

The problem was, the zombies kept coming. She wasn't a very good shot to start with; it took her several tries, at an ever decreasing distance, to kill each one.

A dull click let her know that she was out of ammo.

She dropped that empty clip, fumbling to find a full one in a pocket, but all she ended up doing was dropping the gun. Letting out a small sob, she turned and began scrabbling at the crates, knowing as she did so that she wouldn't be quick enough.

A clammy hand grabbed her arm, and she screamed, turning to see a decidedly squishy-looking woman with one eye and half her face missing prepare to bite into her.

The scream died in Kerryn's throat as she was suddenly overwhelmed by a hot, feral scent, an overpowering smell of dog and blood and dead meat, and a giant presence threw her roughly aside. She scrabbled backwards on hands and heels, slipping in the blood in her panic to get _away_, as the wolf continued to tear into the oncoming Croats. A spray of reeking muck spattered her as the crazed werewolf tore another Croat clean in two, and used the disintegrating torso as a club to batter at the others.

Keening in horror, Kerryn turned and crawled blindly until she went head first into something solid – it was a crate. Her legs were so wobbly they wouldn't let her stand, let alone climb, so she huddled where she was, wondering if this was truly what a rabbit in a spotlight felt like…

Then suddenly, she realised that there were no dead hands clutching at her.

Wiping congealing mess from her face, she turned to see that the Croats had, finally, been slaughtered. There was a strange silence; the werewolf had stopped its slavering, and stood, covered in gore and chest heaving, over a pile of pieces. The small patch of ground looked like a slaughter yard. Carefully, holding onto a crate, she pulled herself upright.

The wolf's head came around, and it peered at her.

Kerryn opened her mouth, but nothing came out. "I…" she turned aside, and threw up, the monster watching her curiously the whole time. "Oh, fuck," she moaned, wiping her mouth, "I… " she straightened up. "Fuck. Fuck. Thank you. I'm… oh, fuck…"

The werewolf's eyes narrowed; he let out a rumbling growl.

"Uh, yeah, it's me," she said shakily, wiping at more of the cooling gunk on her, "Again. I, uh, that wasn't… I'm glad you were here…." She looked up. "It's Andrew, right? Dean said your name is Andrew. You saved my son, Todd. Last night. He was…"

Her voice trailed off as the wolf snarled, and dropped to all fours, stalking towards her.

"Andrew?" she said again, "Andrew? It's me. From last night. Kerryn. My name's Kerryn. Last night, you killed the Croats… my boy, Todd…"

With sudden realisation, she saw that there was no sentience in the suspicious eyes, just uncomprehending savagery, and wandering madness.

"No," she whispered, backed against the crate, "No, no, no, please, Andrew, no…"

She shut her eyes as the wolf bared its enormous teeth in a guttural snarl, and leapt.

* * *

Good grief, Ulfric the Decidedly Mucky has been a talkative little fella. And slightly gory around the edges. Keep feeding him reviews, although low-cal ones might be a good idea, because he's definitely growing a LOT bigger than I ever suspected he would. And he can't make up his mind as to how this should end; happy ending? Slightly sad ending? Even sadder ending? This can't happen in the Jimiverse - we only do happy endings here; This bunny is out of control - could we have discovered... were-plot bunnies? o_O You don't think there could be more Jimiverse-AU-Were!chester ones hopping about, do you? I swear, I'll start putting down baits.


	12. Chapter 12

daikininz says:_Tell Ulfric that if he doesn't lay off the cliffhangers & produce a happy ending I'm going to fast-post him a vial of myxomatosis_

Leahelisabeth says: _but I'm already shipping the love story of Kerryn and Andrew where he saves her from a horde of Croats and she saves him from the madness of his grief._

Denizens; they has teh pushy.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

Dean let out an unhappy yap as one of the Croats managed to sink its teeth into his leg; irritably, he extended a hind foot, kicked it away, and stomped its head.

_Who the fuck pulls the legs off these things instead of the head?_ He snarled, rounding on his brother. _Was that you?_

Sam just returned the snarl, and deliberately turned his back. _Throwback._

_Runt,_ Dean shot back.

_Serves you right for dividing your attention,_ gruffed Bobby, before Dean could take his brother to task, _You got one ear on your den-sire, and not on what's right behind you. Your den-dam taught you better'n that._

Dean rumbled unhappily, knowing that Bobby was right.

The mopping up continued until it became clear that the swarm was all but destroyed. Dean was decapitating one last gnashing zombie when a particularly savage roar sounded from the direction of the bus.

Dropping the oozing carcass, he let out a bellowing roar of his own, and shot off in the direction of the sound.

With an anxious yelp, Sam bounded after him.

Bobby let out a demanding snarl of his own, then shifted back to human. "Sam! SAM! Balls," he muttered.

"What's set himself off?" asked Jody, putting a bullet in a Croat that was still twitching.

"We got a new arrival decided to go get her kid, I think," he replied, "Only I think she's about to get herself killed. Damn it," there was real sadness in his voice, "Damn it, I was hopin' we might avoid this, we can't afford to lose either of 'em…"

With a yelping cry, Sabine realised what was happening, and followed Sam. RJ dropped the zombie he'd just torn apart, and sped off after her.

"God's tits," Bobby growled, "Can you finish up here? This is pack business, and it's gonna get ugly."

"Stay out of the way, huh?" Jody suggested, "You're too old and cranky to challenge for top dog."

Bobby sighed at the worry behind the joke. "I just wanna make sure that only one of 'em ends up dead," he assured her, trying not to let his voice shake, "Just make sure all these sumbitches are properly non-viable, then go see Fic."

With a shrug, he shifted back to his wolf form, and followed the others, his heart breaking with the thought that he was going to lose somebody, and hating himself for praying fervently that it would be Dean who walked away.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean's heart sank as he took in the scene before him. The sprawled wreckage of Croats, torn carelessly to shreds, littered the ground. Kerryn cowered against the stack of crates protecting the bus, whilst Andrew, covered from head to foot in gore from the zombies and blood from his own wounds, prepared to attack. He let out another bellow, and shot across the space between them, barreling into the older wolf and carrying them across the ground in a rolling tangle.

He rolled to his feet, and saw his den-sire do the same. Andrew came up snarling; there was no recognition in his eyes, just rage.

Dean felt compelled to try. _You are my den-sire,_ he whuffed gently, _You are my den-sire, mate of my den-dam, and my friend. Enough._

The noise the older wolf made was a chastisement, a snarling correction given to a pup by an adult.

Dean shifted back to human, and tried again. "This is not you, man," he said softly, his voice catching in his throat, "This is not you."

Andrew sat back on his haunches, growling in inarticulate threat.

"Don't do this," Dean pleaded, "I don't wanna do this. But I will." He gestured to the other wolf's flanks. "You're hurt, dude. You weren't watching your back. Just, just stand down, okay? We've won. The Croats are dead."

The only reply was a guttural, rumbling threat, promising bloody violence. _Get out of my way, Young._

"This is not what'd she'd want!" Dean hissed desperately, "You're my den-sire! This is not what my den-dam would want! Are you listening to me, Andrew? This is not what Ronnie would want!"

With a final roar of defiance and challenge, Andrew shot forward.

Dean shifted to his wolf form, and with an answering bellow – _I am Alpha! _– he went in for the kill.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Kerryn felt herself grabbed roughly and let out a little shriek as she was dragged upright. She turned to see Sam, still in wolf form, pulling her away from the two fighting wolves. A detached part of her brain marvelled at the way the long muzzle could actually pull such a recognisably bitchy expression.

"What… what the hell's going on?" she shrieked. Sam shifted back to human, and continued to drag her back. "Ow! What's happening?"

"What does it look like?" Sam almost shrieked back, "What does it look like? They're fighting, that's what's happening! Andrew's finally lost it, and they're… they're fighting…" with surprise, she saw that there were tears in his eyes.

"But… why?" she asked, bewildered.

"This is pack business," growled a voice behind her. She turned to see Bobby, with a face like thunder. Behind him, one of the younger wolves, a female one, buried her face against the shoulder of the male – RJ – and cried like a wounded puppy. "This is how it's settled."

Kerryn turned back to the two werewolves who were attacking one another ferociously, using teeth and claws. Blood was flowing.

"What?" Kerryn gaped at him, then up at Sam. "What's being settled?"

"Andrew's just challenged Dean," Sam told her, "He's openly challenged the authority of the Alpha. And now, they have to settle it."

"But… they're killing each other!" she yelped in horror, watching Dean dodge a disembowelling strike from the other wolf before darting in and almost managing to slice Andrew's throat open. "They're… I'm safe, now! You can't let him kill Dean instead of me! You have to stop them!"

"We can't," Sam growled, "This is pack business. It has to end here."

"What, when one of them is dead?" she shrieked incredulously.

"Yes," he answered woodenly.

"Dear God, I wanted to avoid this," Bobby growled despairingly, "I hoped we'd find a way to bring him back."

"But… but…" Kerryn gaped at them, "But that's… completely stupid!"

"It's pack business!" Bobby snapped.

"What if Andrew kills Dean?" she demanded.

"Then I'll tear his fucking head off," snarled Sam.

"Really? Well, that's intelligent!" she shouted, the stress and terror of the previous hours, the previous months, the horror of the whole situation, finding its way out in bewildered anger at what she perceived as utter stupidity. "He's your brother, he's your leader here, and he_ might_ get killed, but you're gonna _wait _and _see_?" She looked around, and her eyes fell on the other wolves, who were standing and watching, Sabine still keening into RJ's shoulder. "With their kids standing there, and watching? There's enough of you to stop it! You can't just let them kill each other in some stupid pissing contest to see who has the biggest dick!"

Frankie shifted back to human. "Look, I know it must be hard to understand," she began.

"You're damned right it's hard to understand!" shouted Kerryn, "Aren't enough people dead already? Haven't we lost enough already? What's the point? What's the damned _point_ of getting somebody else killed?"

Her eyes fell on her gun, dropped carelessly on the ground. With a wrench, she pulled away from Sam, scooped it up clumsily, and fished in her pocket for her last magazine. She strode towards the wrestling werewolves, and before anybody could protest, she took a wincing aim, then put four shots into the ground at their feet, bellowing as loudly as either of them,

"THIS IS FUCKING STUPID, YOU MORONS, SO FUCKING STOP IT, YOU FUCKING FUCKERS!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean's attention was completely on the fight: he didn't register the presence of the rest of his pack, and he didn't acknowledge the sadness of what he had to do. It was something his den-dam had taught him.

"You have to let the wolf drive," Ronnie had told him, whilst patching him up after the first Hunt he'd tackled after she had bitten him, "You can't let your human mind hang around, worrying about collateral damage, worrying about who might see you, worrying about consequences. You worry about that before, or after. Once you have to fight, you don't dick around. Get in there, and kill."

"You make it sound so simple," he'd grunted, wincing as she wielded the peroxide.

"It is simple," she shrugged, "For a werewolf, for us, it is that sample. Kill, or be killed. You saw your brother? It's nuts; College Boy is happy just to let the red mist come down, but Mr G.E.D. here won't switch his mind off." _A hunt should be completed quickly_, she added, using the familiar form of address that an Elder used when instructing a pup.

_I am not a pup,_ he'd gruffed back. _Or a Young, Old Female._

_Watch your tone,_ she had rumbled back in amusement, _You are not Alpha. Yet._

"Sam has a lot of anger in him," Dean confided. `

"So do you," Ronnie had replied, "But you're more afraid of it than he is. You're more worried that you won't just be able to use the wolf; you're worried that you'll be good at it. That you'll enjoy it."

"What are you now, my shrink?" he'd snapped more petulantly than he'd intended.

_I am your den-dam_, she'd gruffed without anger. "I'm an Old Female who's not as dumb as she is ugly," she cracked a smile, "And it's what will make you Alpha one day." _It is the way of things,_ she added, when she saw his face.

"Yeah, right, like you'd ever do what I told you," he griped, wincing as the disinfectant found another cut. "Or Andrew. Mr I-Always-Get-The-Last-Potato-Pancake would just flip me off."

"The day may come when you have to call him out," she remarked casually, simply stating a fact, "Just promise me you'll make sure it's over something more worthwhile than a potato pancake. Because if one of you kills the other over a kartofelpuffer, I will shoot the other one on the grounds of stupidity unbecoming."

"Okay, I promise, no challenging my den-sire over a potato pancake," Dean promised, "But if it happens to be one of your apple and blueberry pies, his ass is mine… OW!"

He had replayed that conversation a number of times since Andrew had been lost to madness, but right there, and right then, he was in the moment, kill or be killed. The grief would come later.

Assuming he won, of course. His den-sire was older, but he had more practice; he'd been trained up in Werewolf 101 by the best, and he most definitely didn't have any problem with letting the wolf take over. The fight was brutal, vicious and unrelenting.

He almost managed to get his teeth into Andrew's throat, and felt claws rake along his flank, opening wounds and aiming for a disemboweling Twisting away, he turned and slashed for his opponent's stomach, then jumped backwards as four-inch claws barely missed his own throat. The old wolf was too damned cunning to leave him any real opening, so it was going to be a knock-down drag-out slugging match. They'd be lucky if one of them was still alive when it ended…

Both brawling wolves suddenly jumped apart as shots sounded right next to them. Incredibly, a human – Kerryn, the newcomer – stood glaring up at them. With a start, he realized that she was shaking with as much anger as fear. Both of them gawped at her, utterly stunned by the human intervention in pack business.

When she had their attention, she reached up and slapped Andrew as hard as she could across the muzzle. The older wolf yipped in surprise.

"Where the fuck do you get off?" she screeched, her voice on the edge of hysteria while she shook her hand in pain, "Ow! Ow! Just where the fuck do you get off, you idiot?"

Shifting back to human, Dean tried to steady his voice. "Kerryn, right now I need you to…"

She whirled, and hit him too. It was a clumsy and unpractised strike, but it had enough rage and hysteria behind it to make it hurt. Andrew yipped again, his eyes bugging as widely as Dean's.

"Shut up!" she shrieked, her voice cracking, "Just shut up! You can take your damned pissing contest, and shove it up your fucking ass, you jerk! This is so, so, fucking STUPID!"

Kerryn turned back to Andrew, her teeth bared as the tears started. "You think you're the only one who's lost somebody?" she demanded, absolutely irate, "You think you're the only one who misses somebody? And now, you want to wallow around in it?" Her face went bright red. "You selfish prick! Your world came crashing down. Well, boo fucking hoo! What gives you the right to, to, to, just_ lose_ it, when everybody else has to try to keep it together! The world's going to hell, there are zombies, actual ZOMBIES, trying to take over the planet, the entire frigging world, and people are being killed, and turned into more zombies, and there are real monsters out there, and, and, and, somehow, we're trying to keep it together and not get exterminated, and you, the best you can do, is try to kill me, then try to kill this guy? In front of your daughter? Your own child? You sonofabitch! You selfish, thoughtless sonofabitch! You know what? I don't care if he tears your fucking head off!" She was sobbing in earnest. "I don't care! In fact, I hope he tears your fucking head off! Go ahead and kill each other! This is insane! This is insane! I don't even know what happened to him, whether they came back and ate him, or whether he turned into a Croat too, it's insane, it's all completely insane…"

She fell to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably, as the others stood looking at her stunned.

"Mom?"

That single syllable brought her up short. Like a marionette with the strings tensioned, she suddenly stood up, in control of herself again.

Todd stood, cautiously looking out from around the pile of crates with half a dozen other small, curious faces. "Mom?" he said again, making his way to her side.

Kerryn fixed a rictus smile onto her face, and wiped at her eyes. "I'm fine, honey," she quavered, "Really, I'm fine, I'm just a bit scared. It was scary, with all the zombies." She sniffed and took a deep breath. "Are you all right?"

"I'm not scared," Todd announced, looking around. "We had Andrew. He saved us."

Kerryn blinked; that was the longest sentence her boy had spoken in more than a year, she thought vaguely, as he walked fearlessly up to the blood-caked monster. Tentatively, he reached out a hand, and rested it on the werewolf's huge paw.

"We saw," he said, peering up at the wolf, "You were awesome."

Andrew let out a small, yipping sound, then backed up a couple of steps. He threw back his head, and let out the heart-rending howl he'd given the previous night, then without looking back, he headed for the fence at a limping lope, climbed over it, and disappeared.

"God's twirlin' tasselled tits and Satan's sandalwood-scented toilet tissue," breathed Bobby.

Dean shifted back to human, and turned to give Kerryn The Stare. Covered in blood – Croat, Andrew's and his own – he didn't look any less intimidating on two legs.

"We will talk later," he growled, "When we've cleaned up this shitfest, we will talk."

"I…" she began.

"Do not say another fucking word," he hissed, "Because, lady, if you do, I might just…"

"Oh, stick a cork in it!" she snapped at him, taking her son by the hand and heading for their cabin. "And put some clothes on, you exhibitionist!" she shouted over he shoulder as she stomped away.

"That's you told, bro," observed Sam as they watched, Dean gawping at Kerryn's retreating back. As she left, the sound of running feet came towards them.

"Dean! Dean!" Kelly came running at them, full tilt, "We need you at the gate!"

Dean whipped around. "Are there more?" he demanded, "Is there another wave?"

"No, no, it's not Croats," she assured him, "But Fergus was right; Zeus and Xena have caught a demon."

* * *

Calm down, depraved beldames, it's not Gratuitous Winchester Nudity; it's Narrative Consistency-Relevant Winchester Clotheslessness. Completely different.

Send Ulfric nice reviews to eat, because Reviews are the… uh… Gore Splattered Werewolf in the… um… they're the Cathartic Hissy Fit in the… er… the Astonishingly Hysterical Person Doing Their Nana at the… um, look. please send me reviews because the plot bunny likes them and they make me feel loved wanted and needed. Thank you.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

The pack headed back to the main gate, where the Winchesters' dogs, Xena and Zeus, each held the arm of a Croat that was located in the middle of a devil's trap.

"Oh, there you are," sighed Crowley with relief, "Do you know, Moose, that bad-mannered consort of yours threatened to shove me in there with it?"

"Kelly!" Sam turned a horrified look on her, "How could you threaten to do that to Fergus? Apologise at once!"

She looked repentant. "You're right," she said in a small voice. "I'm so sorry for threatening to push him into the devil's trap. I shouldn't have bothered with a threat, I should just have done it. Next time, I'll know better."

"That's all right, you're forgiven," he smiled, leaning in to hug her as Crowley let out a small bark of outrage, "So, let's see what…" They were interrupted by a rasping, choking noise from somewhere at ground level.

With a sigh, Dean deftly scooped up Timothy the Pomeranian, and gave his rib-cage an expert squeeze. The little dog coughed, and a dismembered finger shot out of his mouth. "Dude, you never learn, do you?" he chided fondly as Timothy, completely unrepentant, turned to give him a greeting kiss on the nose. "Go find your human." He put the little dog down, and the Pom of Death shot off, presumably to find Beverly. "So, what do we have here?" he asked, sizing up the Croat in the trap.

The body was that of a woman who had apparently been attacked on the way to the gym, but it wasn't a zombie; the eyes held too much malevolent intelligence. "I could ask the same thing," it purred obscenely, looking Dean up and down slowly. "If I didn't already know. Dean Winchester, as I live and breathe… or not," it giggled, "As the case may be."

"Yeah, well, I'll be the one asking the questions," Dean grinned back humourlessly.

"Oh, but I have so many!" the demon trilled, "Such as, what is he," it nodded towards Crowley, "Doing here, holed up with a human hold-out? Well, mostly human," it giggled again, "Not that I have anything against doggy style."

"He makes the tea," scowled Dean, "What are you doing here? Who's holding your leash?"

"Does it really matter?" asked the demon, "Does it make any difference which side wipes your pathetic little fortress out?" Its eyes slid to Kelly. "Maybe I'll make a point of hanging around when it all turns to shit here," it leered, "I'll grab that meatsuit, and we can have some fun. Go out with a bang, huh?"

Sam started to growl, and his canine teeth extruded. Dean put a calming hand on his brother's shoulder. "It would probably be amusing to watch you try," he smirked, "But let's get back to you. Who's yanking your chain?"

"What were you doing cruising around outside the walls, anyway?" The demon leered at Kelly, who just stared back. "What was so important out there that you were prepared to do that? That's what I'm wondering." Her gaze turned back to the Winchesters. "What are you up to?" she wondered out loud. "The Winchesters are alive, and holed up, and up to something. I wonder what it is?"

"Wonder all you like," shrugged Dean, "Whose sewer did you crawl out of?" He smiled coldly. "We can do this the easy way, or we can… no, that's not really true; we can do this the hard way, or we can do this even harder. Choice is yours, shitbag."

The demon chuckled. "What are you gonna do, sneer at me some more?" It grinned obscenely again. "Actually, I like that expression. On you, it looks good. I'm imagining making you sneer just for me."

"Bet you won't be so cocky when we sent you back Downstairs," remarked Sam, "Gettin' yourself caught? You're gonna be in a world of hurt when your boss finds out."

"Are you kidding?" the demon laughed. "With the intel I got here? I'll have so many brownie points I'll have to skin a couple of humans to make sacks to carry them around! No need to exorcise me, boys," she went on, "I'll see myself out. And not even your mutts," the demon gave a useless struggle against the half-Hellhounds, who just dug their hellteeth in harder, "Can stop me."

There was a sudden _flap-flap_ sound behind them.

"You are correct," agreed Castiel. "The dogs cannot stop you. But I can."

The demon didn't even get to finish letting out a horrified scream as Castiel strode into the devil's trap and shoved his hand into the Croat's chest, squeezing the demon's very essence.

"Whom do you attend?" demanded the Angel of the Lord, "Who is your master?" The demon shrieked and writhed, but the dogs held on, and Castiel persisted.

"Belaal!" it finally wailed, "Duke Belaal!"

"That bastard!" yapped Crowley, "That vicious, utter, utter bastard! I might've known he'd be part of this! He's spent the last hundred years doing nothing but scheme to get his arse on my bidet! When he's not biting the heads off baby otters, anyway…"

"Why are you here?" demanded Castiel, "What is your task?"

"Screw you, you feather-assed yes-man!" squealed the demon. "AaaaaAAAAAARGH! Scouting out resistance! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

"To what purpose?" demanded the angel.

"Fuck you!" screeched the writhing demon, "Fuck you! They're all as good as dead! When he sends the Hellhounds, they're all dead! And you'll be dead too, if you're here! You're all dead, you hear me? YOU'RE ALL DEAD!"

Castiel tightened his grip. Smoke and sickly light began to ooze from the demon until, with a last agonised shriek, it ceased to exist, and the Croat fell to the ground, just so much more dead meat.

"I am sorry that I could not get hear sooner, Dean," Castiel intoned sadly, looking at the carnage around them.

"Hey, better late than never, huh?" grinned Dean, clapping him on the shoulder. "You arrived just in time to save our asses – if that piece of shit had got away, this Duke Belaal would know who we are, and where we are."

"He's the leader of one of the most powerful factions of the Hierarchy, Hell's nobility," Crowley reminded them. "With an ego the size of a blue whale, and a sense of entitlement bigger than a Kardashian's. If he's taking an interest, it's because he thinks something might threaten his position. And if he thinks there's a threat, he'll want to wipe it out."

"But they don't know what we're doing," remarked Kelly.

"He suspects," Bobby noted, "You heard that thing – coulda been his spy sneakin' around last night, maybe checking the lay of the land, testin' out our defences."

"It didn't get away, either," rumbled Sabine smugly, flipping her knife.

"That alone could set off alarm bells," Bobby suggested, "You send out scouts, they don't come back, you wonder why."

"That demon mentioned Hellhounds," Sam mused, "It said, 'When he sends the Hellhounds'. What does that mean?"

"An empty threat," Crowley waved a hand dismissively, "Belaal couldn't have command of a single Hellhound, let alone the Infernal Pack. Some days, I wonder if he even has command of his bowels…"

"Could he just be sayin' that to make his followers think he's more powerful than he actually is?" posed Kelly.

"Are you sure there aint anythin' in that?" pressed Bobby.

"Bobby, you of all people know that it takes a very… special individual to master a Hellhound, let alone a pack of them," Crowley said. "Just brute force won't do it – if that was all that was needed, every demon and his dog – ha ha – every demon and his dog would have a Hellhound. No, Belaal tries it personally, he'll get torn to pieces. And none of his underlings are any better." He brightened. "Actually, I hope they do try, it will make getting my job back a lot easier if he and his faction are all reduced to piles of Hellhound poo."

"He'll get a hell of a fright if he tries it," Dean grinned viciously, "I'm the Hellhound Whisperer, remember? I'll just have Chevy tear this Belaal asshole's head off, and use the rest of him as a chew toy. And now, I can speak his language." He looked around. "Right now, we got a clean-up operation to get underway," he sighed. The younger werewolves groaned. "Don't give me that," he frowned, "The sooner we start, the sooner we finish."

"Why do we get to haul Croats?" whined RJ.

"Because we're bigger and nastier and can carry 'em two at a time," replied Dean, "Plus, we're already covered in crap, and won't notice a bit more." People were starting to converge on their position. "You know the drill, people," he announced, "Get any casualties to Fic, then check the perimeter. I want lookouts on the fence, and these vehicles in the garage. RJ, you get your crew together and reset those charges. Arjan, I want an inventory of our weapons and what ammo we got left. Kelly, you secure that stuff, then go help Fic…"

The inhabitants of the camp went about their tasks, disposing of the mangled zombies and gradually putting their little stronghold to rights.

"Where is he?" Dean murmured to Castiel.

The angel cocked his head briefly, as if watching an internal radar. "Hunting," he replied, "He has found another group of Croats. He is Hunting, and grieving." He fixed Dean with what people jokingly referred to as his Eye Sex Stare Of Doom. "What happened was not your fault," he went on, gently but firmly. "It was her decision, and her choice. She was a Hunter, and Hunters die saving others. The same goes for Connor. They had no regrets, and no bitterness."

"I just… I just didn't figure on losing my den-sire as well," Dean replied shakily. "Cas, will he… will he ever…"

Castiel's expression softened. "That is not for me to know," he answered. "Sometimes, bad things happen to good people. It's how things happen, in a universe with no pre-determination_. It is the way of things_, he added, with a small smile.

Dean let out a small snort of laughter. "You better watch out there, Cas," he warned, "You've been hangin' around with the locals too much, you'll end up goin' native." He turned back to directing the recovery efforts as the angel took his leave.

As Dean gave out orders, Crowley looked down at himself. "Well, I fear that's it for this suit," he sighed sadly, "I have no idea what's in those Croats – the goo is so much harder to get out of a wool blend than even blood. Maybe next time I should just change into my overalls…"

Bobby elbowed him sharply. "Screw your duds, Fergus, go be useful. Go make tea," he instructed, before shifting back to his wolf form, and picking up the remains of a Croat.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Outrage got Kerryn as far as the small cabin she had shared with Todd, but once she was there, the steam went out of her. She sat down heavily on the bed, her head spinning.

The place had been overrun by Croats, she'd been given a crash course in how to use her gun properly – by a demon, no less, oh, and there was another one running around somewhere, too – she'd been almost bitten by a zombie, saved by a flying statue with a disconcertingly prominent dick, then almost eaten by Croats again.

Oh, yeah, she'd also hit a werewolf that had wanted to kill her. And the one that ran the place.

On the upside, her son had said more than he'd managed out loud for a long time.

Just another day in the life, really.

There was a tentative knock at the door. Dazed, she stood, and answered it. It was Bess.

"Uh, hi," the home-grown werewolf greeted her, "I was wondering if I could borrow Todd. To help Garth get the animals settled again."

"Sure!" piped Todd before Kerryn could say anything, flashing his mother a grin, then speeding off in the direction of the chicken and rabbit pens. She went to call him back, but Bess forestalled her.

"Let him go," she suggested, "It's a way to keep the kids out of harm's way while we clean up the worst of the carnage."

Kerryn nodded; it made sense. She looked down at herself. "I should get changed," she said vaguely.

"I think maybe you should sit," smiled Bess, plonking herself down on the bed. "We'll get your trophy later."

Kerryn gawped. "Trophy?" she repeated numbly.

"For sure!" grinned Bess, "You thumped Dean Winchester, and walked away! There's only one other woman could ever put him in his place like that! Okay, well, if you think a trophy might be too much, at least a small commemorative plaque on the spot."

Kerryn groaned and dropped her head into her hands. "Ronnie," she sighed, "You're talking about Ronnie, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Bess nodded, "I'm talking about Ronnie. I wish you could've met her. If Todd likes making things, well, she was great with kids…"

"How did it happen?" Kerryn interrupted. "What happened? What the hell pushed Andrew over the edge like that?"

Bess's eyes were stricken. "I told you before, we know that Plan Z will work, because it has done before," she said eventually.

"You were overrun before?" asked Kerryn, shuddering at the thought.

"Yeah," Bess replied grimly. "A big swarm. A real big swarm. Only, we didn't have the place as secure as it is now. They were everywhere, and it became clear that we'd have to bug out, get as many out alive as we could, and regroup. The bus was ready to go, though, that was one of the first things we did, armour the bus. But the wiring wasn't done."

"What wiring?" Kerryn asked.

"The wiring for the charges – one to blow the fence, and a bigger one, to take out any Croats, give us a clear path and a head start. Like the one outside the gate. Andrew and Connor had been installing it – he knows a lot about IEDs, and Connor loved learning about that stuff from when he was little – but it wasn't done." She paused, and took a deep breath. "The damned Croats headed for the bus, and we thought we were gonna be swamped, but then Ronnie was there, with Connor, and her dog, Ares. They beat the Croats back, they were shredding them like tissue paper, then Ronnie held them off while Connor did a jury-rig with the wiring. But it still needed the detonator. I never knew that, you need an electrical current to set the stuff off, and that was further away." She wiped at her eyes. "And the person who was closest to it was Andrew."

Kerryn's jaw dropped.

"And she was snarling, and howling, and telling him to do it," Bess went on, a tear running down one cheek, "And if he'd waited any longer, it would've been too late, but he did it. I had all the kids hunched down in the seats…"

"But you saw," whispered Kerryn.

"I saw," nodded Bess. "She… disappeared. They all did. Ronnie, Connor, Ares, along with all the Croats, the charges blew, and they all just disappeared. But it worked." She sniffed. "The bus got out, and just about everybody else got out, and we had enough time to get to the muster point and regroup…"

"What about Andrew?" breathed Kerryn.

"He didn't follow," Bess went on. "Dean was the last guy out, with the Impala. Last he saw, Andrew was in wolf form, and he stood in the gap in the fence, and stopped any of them following us. Bobby's called it the minching machine. Dean said… Dean said he thinks he wanted to die. He wanted to follow his pair-bond, and his boy. But he can't, not while he still has a pup, and a 'pack' that needs him. So when we came back two days later, he hadn't. He was still there. Still alive. And still on four legs. He hasn't been human since. I don't think he's really been Andrew, since." She paused. "I think the worst part is not having anything to bury, something to build a pyre for."

"Like Keith," Kerryn mused, "I just… I haven't had time to wonder about what happened to him, after our neighbour attacked him, we had to get out, me and Todd, right there, right then, we had to get out, and then there were the others to look out for, and I had to get us organised, because God knows I had no idea what we should do or what I was doing but neither did they and somebody had to do something, and we had to get on the road, find somewhere to go, and we had to worry about finding food, and gas, and clean water, and guns, God, we needed those, and I nearly scared myself to death working that out, and there wasn't time for me to lose my shit, I had to hold it together while the others took turns at losing their shit, but I couldn't, there wasn't…" she held out her hands and realised that she was shaking. "This all just…. it fucking sucks," she finished.

Bess actually chuckled. "It sucks, it blows, and everything in between," she agreed, "But right now, we gotta get on with it. Mourn the dead, and worry about the living, as Bobby is fond of saying. And at the moment, that means clearing up. First order of business, if you don't have any medical training, is to dispose of the Croat carcasses. We pile 'em up outside the walls, and burn 'em. So don't get changed just yet," she grinned, "You're gonna get a whole lot grubbier before we're done. We haven't been able to find a front end loader within a practical radius, so it's all done with manpower. Or wolfpower, if you're that way inclined."

With a sigh, Kerryn stood up again. "Whatever this plan is that the Grumpy Old Men have, I hope like hell it works," she pronounced. "I miss my boring life. The only dead thing I ever had to dispose of before now was a goldfish." She gave Bess a despairing look. "I don't suppose we could ask Castiel the angel to, you know, angel mojo up a really big bathroom, so we could just flush them?"

Bess laughed out loud. "Afraid not. But look on the bright side. Fergus will be making tea. And the pained expression on his face while he serves up always makes my day that little bit happier."

* * *

Ah yes, let's all point and laugh at Crowley - in the Jimiverse, it's almost as much fun as offending Sam's delicate sensibilities or outraging Dean's sense of masculinity.

Good grief, what is Ulfric up to? This corner of the Jimiverse is turning out to be waaaaaay more complicated than I'd ever anticipated.

Send reviews, so I can bunch them all together and use them to whack at the plot bunny that has its teeth embedded in my leg. Ow.


	14. Chapter 14

Yeughl, I has teh sick, and I think the plot bunnies have been avoiding me because I keep sneezing and coughing all over them, but I managed to wring another chapter out of Ulfric here. Whatever I'm incubating, I think it could be worse than Croatoan. I certainly feel like a zombie. And look like a zombie. And shuffle like a zombie. And vocalize like a zombie. And tear the terrified living apart and devour them raw like a zombie. No, hang on, that was bananas.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

It was hard, dirty work, shifting the Croat carcasses outside the walls to an area of bare earth, but it went more quickly with the werewolves on four legs. Dean kept his thoughts to himself when he saw Kerryn join the effort, looking nauseous but grimly determined to do her bit.

When it was done, Bobby insisted that everybody except the lookouts gather, and spend a moment thinking of the people the zombies had once been. He even took of his hat.

"Before they were Croats, they were ordinary people," he intoned sternly, "We got no idea who they were, what their names might've been. Some of 'em were good, some of 'em were bad, but they were just ordinary folks, like us, until something evil came and took that away from them. They didn't deserve it. Nobody deserves it. They were just a whole lot unluckier than us. Maybe they left family and friends behind, people who have no idea what became of 'em, who are still grievin' for them, and will never where they finally found a resting place. All we can do for 'em is commend them unto The Almighty, and ask that He look kindly upon them and give some sort of comfort to whoever they left behind, while we remember that they were people."

A few people muttered 'Amen' as the fire was set.

"Well, now let's concern ourselves with the livin'," the old Hunter muttered, replacing his hat. "I, for one, could do with a wash."

"Women, children and Latin speakers first!" suggested Sam hopefully. Dean gave him The Stare, and he sighed in defeat. "I hate being so dirty," he mumbled.

"Don't be such a princess," scoffed Dean, "You don't see Timothy complainin' about being a bit grimy. Right, Tim?" The small dog bedraggled dog wagged his tail.

"He looks like a surgical sponge that's been double-dipped," observed Sam tartly, "Beverly will have a fit. And you," his eye fell on Zeus, who was also covered in gore, "Will be comin' into the shower with me, you filthy creature."

"Speakin' of Beverly, we're gonna have to make an effort to get everybody who doesn't have one yet an anti-possession tattoo," decided Dean, "Amulets can be lost, or forgotten, or pulled off. If there's the possibility of some sort of demon assault being planned, I don't want any chance of those assholes using our own people."

"We need to find out what they know," Bobby grunted, "Or at least, what they think they know. But that's for later. On a full stomach. Why don't you kids go bring down something nice for an old man's dinner?"

"We'll have to wash first," Sabine noted, wrinkled her nose at RJ, "Otherwise, anything delicious will smell him coming a mile away."

"I don't smell," complained RJ, "That's the aroma of awesomeness."

"Crap," growled Bobby, "If you can't stay downwind, you'll never catch anything anyway. Go on, go make yourselves useful."

With the resilience and energy of Young, RJ, Frankie and Sabine shucked out of their clothing, shifted, and bounded away, yapping and cuffing at each other, with Thor following, barking in excitement.

"Tea up," announced Crowley, approaching with a large thermos, "And news from Fic."

"What's the damage?" asked Dean, taking the mug that the demon handed him.

"Well, miraculously, we didn't lose anybody," Crowley replied, "Although there are a number of casualties. She's satisfied that Madam Dredd didn't get bitten – she was just covered in so much goo it was difficult to tell – but she does have a broken bone in her wrist, so there will be no dangle-from-the-light-fittings action for you two for a while…"

"Watch your mouth, asshat," rumbled Bobby, taking his mug of houndswort.

"Yes, well, so some broken bones, some lacerations, oh, and Qiao Xin had her baby. A girl."

Bobby's face broke into a huge grin. "Wonderful! What does she look like?"

Crowley eyed him incredulously. "She looks like a baby! You know, bright red, pruney, no teeth and screaming. They all look the same at that age."

"Never mind, Bobby," Sam consoled, "Maybe when she's a bit older, she'll turn out to look a bit orange."

Muttering dire threats, Bobby turned away, and they got on with the business of recovering from the Croat swarm attack.

The three young werewolves returned later with a deer carcass, which they butchered and spitted, the dogs of the compound hovering hopefully and snapping up the discarded entrails and offcuts. Becky squealed in horror, but Chuck let out a shriek of delight, and when roast venison was served up for dinner, he brought out a bottle of… something.

"It's my latest project," he announced proudly, undoing the bottle.

"What's in it?" asked Bobby, eyeing the bottle as if it was a venomous reptile that looked particularly cranky.

"Oh, I put some secret ingredients from Castiel's patch in the mash," beamed Chuck, "I'm sure it will be just awesome!"

"So, you haven't actually tasted it, yet?" checked Sam.

"Well, not as such," admitted Chuck, pouring some into a glass, "But I'm pretty sure I know what went wrong last time."

"Have you actually talked to somebody who knows about this stuff this time?" asked Dean.

"Look, distillation is a simple enough process," Chuck scoffed, "How difficult can it be?"

"Do you want that question answered in light of your previous attempts?" asked Sam trenchantly.

"Don't bust my bubble." Grinning in anticipation, Chuck opened the bottle. "Mud in your eye!" he declared, upending it and taking a deep swig.

Bobby managed to grab the bottle before it hit the ground, while Sam pounded Chuck on the back as he gasped and spluttered.

"Don't spill it!" Bobby snapped, "We'll need it!"

"You see?" Chuck wheezed between heaving gasps, "Bobby wants to try my liquor."

"No I don't," humphed the old Hunter, "I aint stupid, but after today, Fic will want to replenish her surgical spirit stocks – how much of this did you brew?"

"I think he's improving," opined Crowley, eyeing the bottle closely, "I'm not as good a judge of these things as an analytical chemist or one of those feathered fools would be, but giving it the ol' demonic MRI scan, I'd say he's brewed less than ten percent methanol this time around."

"Look on the bright side, Chuck," Kelly consoled the sad would-be distiller, "At least nothing exploded this time."

As the post-attack celebration of surviving wound down and people started heading off to their beds, Kelly yawned and stretched. "I'm beat," she announced, "And I'm heading off to bed too." She cocked an eyebrow at Sam. "Care to join me?"

"First of all, we really gotta make a quick call," Bobby told her, as Sam flushed whilst Dean's eyebrows did one of their lewd gymnastic routines, "Fergus, stop skulking into the shadows and get your ass over to The Den."

Crowley sighed deeply. "There are days, Bobby, there are days when I could almost believe that you only keep me around to provide you with the means to make your long distance calls…"

"Now you know that aint true, Fergus," replied Bobby, "We also need you to maintain the compost heaps. And make the tea. Speakin' of which, why don't you make some more, and meet us there."

"I am a martyr to this place," humphed Crowley, flouncing off in the direction of the mess.

"You gotta be dead to be a martyr," Sam reminded him cheerfully. Without turning around, Crowley flipped him the big vee.

"Well, we can make a start," announced Bobby, "Be ready when Fergus gets back. Come on, let's go see what light our man on the inside can shed."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Don't all thank me at once," muttered Crowley when he arrived back at Grumpy Old Men HQ with a pot of houndswort tea and one of Castiel's people blend. The others were clustered around one end of the table; the maps and documents had been pushed aside, and Kevin Tran was messing around with a laptop, around which there was an incomprehensible tangle of cables, connectors and occult artefacts. "I'll just be mother and pour, then," he sighed.

"Good to go," announced Kevin, "All we need to do is power up." Grinning widely, Dean pulled out his demon-killing knife.

"You don't have to use that particular blade, you know," Crowley griped sourly, "And you only need a dribble of demon blood to establish the connection, not a whole armful. I never got the stain out of that shirt from last time, you bastard."

Rolling his eyes, Bobby drew his own, decidedly less occult, knife, and handed it to Crowley. "Well, why don't you do the honours yourself, Your Majesty." Grumbling about being unappreciated and overlooked, Crowley took the knife and made a slice across his other hand, letting the blood drip into the ugly goblet that Sam held. When the contents began to glow with a sickly pulsing red light, he handed it to Kevin, who dropped one end of a cable into it.

There was a small shower of red sparks that made the dogs present whine and yap, then the laptop suddenly lit up with the same strange glow. Strange symbols scrolled across the screen, then resolved into a cheerful font:

**WEIRDOS IS LOADING, PLEASE WAIT**

It seemed like forever that the 8-bit Hellhound graphic chased a stick figure backwards and forwards through a set of brightly coloured squares, but eventually the laptop played a cheerful tinny fanfare.

"Okay, we're running," Kevin announced, tapping at the keys and wiggling what looked like a joystick from an 80s cartridge game console.

"What's that?" asked Sam.

"It's a replacement for the mouse," explained Kevin. "I didn't like the mouse function on this system."

"Damn straight," muttered Bobby, "They might be vermin, but I don't hold with frightenin' small critters."

"Besides, the squeaking was really annoying," added Crowley, wrapping his cut hand with a handkerchief, "Especially for those double clicks."

Some more clicking, and a program name Snype opened. Kevin highlighted the name SWEETUMS, hit the joystick, and they waited.

"Does this thing not run any faster?" asked Crowley, as the little 8-bit Hellhound chased the stick figure across the screen again. "What was all the mucking around with the upgrade if the damned thing still runs as slow as one of Asmodean's Accounting presentations?"

"We gotta wait until it's safe for him to answer," Bobby reminded them, "His safety, and ours too, depends on him stayin' underneath the radar."

There was an amusing squelching sound effect as the e-Hellhound caught the stick figure, then the screen cleared, and a large, shaggy, anxious face peered back out of the monitor.

"Hello, Mr Tran!" said the fiend in a quiet voice, which for a fiend meant lowering the noise to below a hundred decibels. "Hello, Mr Singer, and Mr and Mr Winchester! Hello, Ms Remington! Hello, Sister! Hello, Sheriff Mills! And Hello, Mr Crow…"

"Don't say it!" squeaked Crowley.

"Sorry! Hello, Mr Fergus!" the fiend corrected himself. He gave them a wave with a couple of his paws, as an imp scrambled out from his pelt and scuttled up to a shoulder, where it farted a greeting. "Phlegmgob says hello to everyone, too!"

"Hey there, Orgle," grinned Dean, "You keeping safe, dude?"

"So far," confirmed Orgle. "None of the Hierarchy even notice me; I'm just a fiend." Several of his mouths turned down reproachfully. "They've revoked the Indispensible Drudge Of The Month scheme, which has really hurt morale – all we want is a little bit of acknowledgement – but on the other hand," he brightened, "It means that I can go just about anywhere; so long as I'm pushing a mop and bucket, nobody asks what I'm doing."

"Well, you watch your back, boy," ordered Bobby, "We got a feeling that one of the Hierarchy factions, Duke Belaal's, is up to somethin'."

"It's probably because of the numbers," Orgle suggested, "I've been talking to Vorz down in The Pit. It's been chaos down there – what with so many Damned souls arriving in such a short time, and Their Graces wanting them turned into demons as quickly as possible, they've been working around the clock, hot-racking. One entire bank of Red Energy furnaces went into melt-up…"

"What's melt-up?" interrupted Sam.

"It's like a reactor melt-down, but even more undesirable," replied Crowley, "Engineering did some simulations once, and predicted that if more than one went into a runaway brain-reaction, it could end theoretically with fall-in getting as far as oozing up through the drains Upstairs, which would result in letters of complaint, hence its name, the Whiner Syndrome…"

"What's a, er, 'runaway brain-reaction'?" Sam wanted to know.

"That means that if it happens, anybody with at least half a brain will run away," said Crowley.

"And fall-in?" asked Jody.

"It's what the ceiling does to those without at least half a brain. Lucifer's bum, Snotty must be beside himself."

"Who's Snotty?" asked Sister Fic.

"Chief of Engineering," Crowley told her. "He's been indispensable since we upgraded from the old brimstone furnaces to the Red Energy reactors."

"He tried to explain it to Their Graces, but they wouldn't listen." Orgle paused. "Or maybe they just couldn't understand him. Nobody really can without you to interpret for us, Mr Cr… Mr Fergus. 'I cannae give ye ainy mooore, Yerrrr Greeeeice, she's bin roonin' a' woon hoondred an' teen perceent a'reidy, ye cannae chairnge the lorrrrs a' diabolics'…All we could figure out was, it's bad."

"We'd better warn Feathers to have the Dominions standin' by with the mops, just in case," muttered Bobby. "So, is the power problem slowin' them down at all?"

"Not so much that, I think," said Orgle, "It's the numbers of Damned souls coming in. The number of people being prematurely reaped because of the Croatoan virus is dropping off now – the humans that are left are the ones that are fortified, defending themselves. And the new demons have been made in such a hurry, they don't have time to skulk around in Hell, learning the sort of survival skills that demons need – viciousness, selfishness, ruthlessness, cunning – so they just get killed off quicker."

"Well, the numbers aint gonna drop off to the point of bein' less of a threat if they get to us," muttered Dean. "We've had a couple of demons testing our defences, at least one of Belaal's minions. That one mentioned something about Hellhounds. You heard anything about that?"

Orgle looked surprised. "Well, I put it down to a rumour," the fiend said, "There has been some boasting by His Grace's followers that he intended to draft the Infernal Pack into his forces…"

"He can't do it," grunted Crowley, "He'll never pull it off."

"The thing is," Orgle went on, "Apparently, he himself wouldn't do it." He looked around carefully. "I have heard tittle tattle about a secret project, very hush-hush," he said, "His Grace recruiting somebody to command the Hellhounds for him."

"Who could do that?" asked Bobby.

"Like I said, it's only gossip," Orgle reminded them, "But demons can't help themselves – they like to boast. And one of the Duke's under-lieutenants was scoffing that they have somebody called Dominic, at least, that's what I think he said, there was a lot of shouting going on…"

The Grumpy Old Men exchanged glances.

"You got anything else for us, Orgle?" asked Jody.

"A couple of recon agents have been reported missing, from one area," the fiend said, "They've been looking for pockets of resistance, and, well, they suspect that some groups are plotting countermeasures. I know you've been careful, but I think they might be looking for you. The prohibition on attempting to kill Winchesters was the second thing that was ditched. Right after the Indispensable Drudge Of The Month awards. They're also looking for you, Mr… Fergus." Orgle managed to look sheepish. "Her Ladyship, Dame Ghazoria, has expressed a desire to turn you into a, um, throw cushion."

Crowley made a sad little noise. "I don't suppose you know what's happened to my bidet?" he asked mournfully.

Orgle brightened up. "I put a pot plant in it, and put it in the corner of Asmodean's office, in Accounting," he said, beaming, "Nobody ever goes there unless they really have to, so I decided that would be the safest place for it to be."

Crowley sighed. "You are a fiend in a million, Orgle," he said, "And reinstitution of the Indispensable Drudge awards will be my first order of business when I am back in charge."

Orgle looked around again. "I think somebody's coming," he said urgently, "I'd better go. Take care, everybody!" Phlegmgob the imp waved and farted goodbye as the fiend picked up his mop, and cut the connection.

"Well, we gotta assume that somebody will home in on us, probably sooner rather than later," frowned Bobby, turning to Kelly. "Did you get the stuff?"

"As much as we could," Kelly replied, "Restriction enzymes, vector stocks, competent strains, PCR kits – it wasn't a very big teaching lab, but it'll give us enough to get started. We got nothing to lose."

"Don't ask me to confirm any of it," Jody rolled her eyes, "I got no idea what she's talking about."

"Fic mentioned that you've got a molecular biologist here," Kelly pressed, "Is that true?"

"Yup," grinned Dean, "A real, live, walkin', talkin'…"

"And don't forget slappin'," interjected Sam.

The grin fell off Dean's face. "Well, yeah," he admitted, "So, if she stays alive long enough for you to pick her brain…"

Jody's eyes widened. "Was that her?" she asked, incredulous, "Was it your lab rat who hit Andrew? And then you?"

"Sure was," chortled Sam.

"I look forward to meeting her," chuckled Kelly.

"Yeah, yeah, you geeks can get together and yuck it up," grumbled Dean. "Where is she?"

"She was talkin' with Bess," Bobby said, "And I think maybe we should leave this until the mornin'." He held out his mug. "More tea, Fergus. I wish we knew more about what this Belaal character was plannin'. 'Somebody called Dominic'? Does he think he has a candidate for the post of Dominican, a Lord of the Hounds?"

"It could be a bluff," suggested Sam, "Boasting, to psyche out Dame Ghazoria's faction. And demons lie."

"They also tell the truth when it can do most damage," grunted Dean.

"I'll meet up with my fellow nerd-sisters first thing tomorrow," said Kelly, standing up and yawning, "You're invited too, Sam."

"Being an honorary girl, and all," grinned Dean. Sam flipped him off. "Hey, Fic, Chuck has brewed up some more surgical spirit, you might want to comandeer it as soon as you can."

"Great," his big sister said, "Where is it?"

"Not sure, but just go find him. Wherever he's sobbing gently to himself, that's where it'll be."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Kerryn had put Todd to bed with Lottie after dark, but had still felt too keyed-up after the Croat invasion to go to sleep herself, so she'd gone looking for more tea, and found Sabine at the mess, brewing houndswort.

"I didn't get around to thanking you," the teenager said, smiling, "I was really worried today, when Dad challenged Dean like that. I haven't seen a look on Dad's face like that since, well, since before Mom died."

"Oh, God, I feel like such an idiot," groaned Kerryn. "Bess told me… she told me what happened. I'm sorry."

Sabine smiled sadly. "Me too. But she wouldn't be. Mom, I mean. I wasn't there, but… she was a Hunter. Raised to it. So was Connor, my brother. Mom said it was pretty clear that he'd be a Hunter from a very young age. It's… there's a saying, in Canine. 'It is the way of things'. It's what Hunters do – go down swinging, saving people."

"And your Dad isn't?" asked Kerryn gently. "A Hunter, I mean."

"No, he's not," Sabine replied. "I mean, he has Hunted, but, well, it's not what he is. Not like Mom was."

"Well, what is he?" Kerryn pressed.

"He was enlisted – he was a medic – but he's a mechanic." She cocked her head. "You know, you're one of the few people who talks about him in the present tense? What he is, not what he was."

"Oh, he's very much alive," Kerryn humphed. "Nobody who 'isn't' could possibly be that loud."

They chatted companionably over their tea, then Kerryn took her leave. "I'd better go and try to get some sleep, and I don't like to leave Todd alone."

"He'll be safe here, you know," Sabine asserted, "You don't have to keep an eye on your kid twenty-four-seven."

"It's a Mom thing," Kerryn told her sternly.

"Funny," mused Sabine, "That's just what my Mom used to say."

"Don't mess with us," Kerryn intoned ominously, "We network."

She headed back to her small cabin. The route took her within view of the 'hermit's hut', and she spared a glance in that direction, wondering if Andrew had raged through his grief enough to return. Then she stopped, and checked.

In the dim light cast by the sparse overhead illumination, she saw a small shadow against the wall. As she walked past, part of the shadow detached, and woofed gently to her.

It was Lottie.

"Todd!" Making her way to the hut, she found her son, curled up in a blanket against the wall of the hut, with Lottie sitting guard. "Todd!" she shook him, "What are you doing here?"

Her son blinked blearily up at her. "Safe," he murmured sleepily, "It's safe here."

"Todd, honey, you'll get cold out here…"

"I got Lottie," Todd said, snuggling up to the dog. "We'll be safe here. If they come back, he'll stop them."

There was a low rumbling noise from within the hut. Kerryn tried not to imagine she could see a piercing blue eye watching her through a gap between the boards.

She wasn't about to tell her boy that it wouldn't happen. Not after what they'd been through. "Well, you can be safe in our cabin," she reasoned, "If they get in again, he'll know they're here long before you do. In the cabin we're out of the way. He'll have plenty of room to kill them. And if the other wolves come to help, you don't want them to have to dodge you. Remember how we got in the way on the first night?" He nodded. "Come on," she chivvied him to his feet, "Back to bed, mister."

" 'Kay." Yawning, Todd stumbled to his feet, and Lottie rose with him. "Night, Andrew," he mumbled, before heading back towards the cabin.

Kerryn hesitated before following him. "I… I'm sorry," she whispered to the wall, "I didn't know. And I'm, uh, I'm sorry for hitting you. I mean, I think I kind of know, I, uh, my husband…" she ran out of words. "He's dead too. Zombie shit by now, I guess. If Croats even shit. Do they shit? I've never wondered about it before, but, I mean, stuff goes in, it's gotta come out, hasn't it, I'm rambling, sorry, I do that." She sighed. "Thank you. Thank you for… you make Todd feel safe. Which is more than I've been able to do for a long time." She paused. "I've met your daughter. She's wonderful. I hope you're proud of her. I think she's proud of you."

There was a sound like a sigh from the hut.

"I'd better go," she said, "I'd… good night."

As she turned to follow her son, a small spot of colour caught her eye. She gawped at it, then laughed quietly.

"Uh, look, I know canines synthesise their own vitamin C, but just so you know, I think Todd left you an orange."

* * *

Well, that was a nice long one (as a hot chick once said to the Living Sex God), I could've split it up into two chapters in a pathetic and obvious strategy to get more reviews, but thought it read better like this. So send me reviews, because Reviews are the Soothing Hot Lemon Drinks When You Are Assailed By The Ghastly Lurgies Of Real Life!


	15. Chapter 15

Well, Ulfric just wrenched the talking stick away from Fergus, and poked him in the eye with it. Uncouth little rodent. Plot bunnies, they have no manners.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

"Hi Kerryn," Sabine's voice cut into the other woman's musings over breakfast, "Hey, Tiger," she greeted Todd. "Don't dawdle, kiddo, school's in today."

The look of bewildered horror that passed over her son's face made Kerryn laugh; she couldn't help it.

"Hey, don't give me that look," instructed Sabine, patting Lottie as the dog nosed at her for attention, "What is this, you think that just because some stupid demons decided to start an apocalypse, school was cancelled forever?"

Todd's wistful face suggested that perhaps that was exactly what he was hoping.

"Well, tough," sniffed Sabine. "Just because it's the end of the world, doesn't mean you can skip school. Lottie can come with you," she wheedled. "And in the afternoon, you can come and have a look in the metalwork shop, see if that's what you want to do, or you can go join Dean's pack, and try some mechanics stuff."

"Fixing cars?" queried Todd, looking less mortified at being sentenced to education.

"Sometimes," Sabine answered, "There's lots of other things need fixing, too. Washers, for example. Everybody's gotta do laundry, and by hand it's a pain in the… butt."

"Washers?" Todd echoed. "That's lame!"

"You'd be surprised," Sabine told him, "Washing machines have gearboxes, and drive shafts, you can learn a lot. Or, Simon was saying that he needs a couple of bright kids working with him – he's our chemist."

"What, like, drugs and stuff?" Todd wanted to know.

"No, a real chemist," Sabine smiled, "He makes our soap, and our toothpaste, and our explosives, and stuff like that. He hardly every sets anything on fire anymore," she added casually. "But you don't have to make up your mind; you can go and look at all sorts of stuff before you decide what you want to do."

"Composting with Fergus?" asked Todd. "That was fun!"

"You know, it'd almost be worth it to say yes, just to see the look on His Majesty's face," grinned Sabine, "But maybe not. You might want to help the gardeners with the fruit trees, though. There would be some compost involvement."

"Go get yourself cleaned up, sweetheart," Kerryn urged him. "Brush your teeth!"

Todd looked up at Sabine. "Do werewolves have to brush their teeth?" he asked.

"Every day," she told him seriously. "At least twice. More, if we go out hunting. And don't get me started on werebeavers, you should see how much floss Arjan goes through."

The boy looked disappointed at that as he headed out of the mess, Lottie trotting beside him, her tail waving.

"So, where am I needed?" Kerryn asked. "I could maybe help Fic – I've done some animal tech work, and my aseptic technique is damned good, probably better than a medical doctor's. Or do Becky and Chuck have their hearts set on isolating some yeast they can use?"

"You've got a meeting this morning," Sabine told her. Kerryn's face suggested that, like her son, she had rather enjoyed the idea that a particularly unsavoury part of her previous life might also be gone for good, by way of small consolation for the end of the world and the extinction of humanity. "Don't look at me like that!" the teenager laughed, "There won't be any PowerPoint, I promise. Dean wants your head."

"Still attached to the rest of me, I hope," posed Kerryn. "I don't want to have to hit him again. I hurt my hand."

"Okay, I coulda phrased that better," grinned Sabine. "We want to pick your brain. While it's still on the inside of your skull. So, your team will be meeting in The Den later…"

"My team?" repeated Kerryn. "What team?"

"Oh, sorry," apologised Sabine, "I should've explained. "The freaks and geeks are looking for a way to stop the Croatoan virus, and you're Head Boss Geek In Charge."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

As she headed for The Den, she passed Beverly, who was outside pedaling vigorously on his exercise bike generator. Tim the Pom Of Death lounged beside him in the morning sun, and thumped his tail on the ground a few times when he spotted her.

"Hey, Kerryn!" he called a little breathlessly, "I heard about you slapping Andrew and Dean! Did you really?"

"Uh, yeah," she admitted. "Um, what are you doing?"

"Charging up the batteries for my ink gun," he answered, "Everybody over sixteen has to get an anti-possession tattoo done, because the G.O.M.s think there might be more demons sniffing around. Drop in later in the day for yours, okay? I'm quick, I'm down to about five minutes now. Oh, and decide whether you want the pawprint or the tree, you know," he took his right hand off the handlebar and waved it, "For just in case. You got a month to change your mind afterwards," he added.

She considered that. "What, like a cooling-off period?" she asked dubiously.

"You got until the next full moon to undo it," Beverly explained, "After that, it's permanent."

"Has anybody ever changed their mind?" queried Kerryn, curious.

"Not that I know of," shrugged Beverly. "But the option is there." He increased his efforts.

"Huh, supernatural CPR," muttered Kerryn. "All you need is a vampire, and you got the full set."

"He's not here very often," commented Beverly to her surprised expression, "And anyway, he won't do it. Because it's irreversible, and upredictable, and, technically, you end up dead. He's got surgical training, and he's from an era when doctors took the Hippocratic Oath formally – 'First, do no harm'. He's helped out with a few medical emergencies." He grinned conspiratorially. "To be honest, I think our Sister Fic might have a bit of a crush on him."

"Gossiping again, Beverly?" she heard Sam Winchester's amused voice behind her. "You're worse than a Hollywood journalist."

"You wouldn't believe the things people like to talk about while they're getting inked," chortled Beverly, "It's like going to the hairdresser, but you're there even longer."

"Shut up and pedal, you disgusting scandalmonger," Sam rolled his eyes as Beverly grinned knowingly. "Come on," he turned to Kerryn, "We got a meeting to get to."

"Look," she began as they approached the building, "Sabine said you've got some sort of plan to try to counter the Croatoan virus…"

"That's the idea," Sam nodded, "Now, all we need is a strategy, a means to our end. Hey guys," he greeted the others who were already gathered around the perpetually messy table, "I got our evil genius right here."

"Anti-evil genius, surely," suggested Fic.

"What, like a virtuous genius?" Kelly scoffed. "There's no such thing. Anyway, if we're gonna be minions, we have to have an evil genius to direct us."

"But we're not evil," protested Frankie, "We're the good guys!"

"The roots of the word 'evil' are obscure," announced Sam as he sat down, "Probably coming from the idea of transgressing, or opposing the accepted norm. Since Croatoan is currently the norm out there, we could, technically, think of ourselves as being evil, in its very earliest sense."

"And if we're evil, we get to go bwa-ha-ha," Kevin pointed out. "Bad guys always get the best lines. Well, except for Darth Maul. He got ripped off, that way. So I say we call ourselves evil."

"You're like children putting on Mummy's lipstick," griped Crowley, "None of you have the least idea what evil really is, and you're going to call yourselves evil, it's an insult is what it is."

"You can call yourselves Belgians for all I care," grumbled Bobby, putting down the manuscript he'd been reading and heading for the door. "They're all yours," he grunted to Kerryn, who just stared at him. "I had word from Fred – some o' the blueberries are lookin' a bit yellowed in the leaves, so they need you to and talk to 'em, Fergus."

Crowley sighed. "That's what I'm reduced to," he complained, "Talking to the shrubbery."

"Not entirely," countered Bobby. "First, go make tea for the evil overlord and her minions." The deposed Monarch of Hell glared balefully at him, and tromped out after him.

Several pairs of eyes turned expectantly to Kerryn.

"So, er," she glanced down at the table, where a number of sketches, some diagrams, some notes and a couple of scientific papers were strewn, "What exactly am I here for?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The human brain was an amazing thing, Kerryn mused over a mug of tea and some apples. Just a few days ago, she was the reluctant den-mom for a group of people who seemed particularly ill-equipped to survive a zombie apocalypse, let alone make a months-long trip across the country to a place of refuge that they weren't even sure existed. Life was perilous, unpredictable and dangerous, a state of constant vigilance, scavenging for the most basic necessities of food and gas, and always being prepared to run at a moment's notice. There was no relaxation, no certainty, no comfort. There was certainly no almost-tea or rabbit stew.

And now, here she was, looking at a scientific paper, and some hand drawn plasmid maps, and discussing transmission factors. The fact that her head had not completely exploded was a tribute to the triumph of human resilience.

"I just don't know enough," Fic muttered, "There was the most basic information in the media – blood-borne virus – and research establishments didn't have time to work it out before everything turned to shit. Doctors are trained to recognise disease, then understand what medication affects what sort of microbe. 'Bugs and drugs', we called second year. We don't get training in how to study the damned things."

"CDC got some weird info out of its sequence," Kerryn said, "In light of the fact that demons exist, and set this thing loose, it makes more sense. Or at least, the fact that it doesn't make sense makes sense." She frowned at the notes. "I guess we should just be thankful that it's not airborne," she muttered, "Although if you're looking to engineer a virus, even a simple one, the fewer receptors you have to mess with the better. Blood or saliva is definitely the least complicated way to transmit it reliably, to maximise the survival of the virus, straight from one nice warm host to the next."

"Plus, we get a zombie apocalypse," grunted Sam wryly, "Which, from a demonic point of view, is a lot more entertaining than people just sneezing themselves to death. So long as the end result is the same, why not have a little fun with it along the way?"

"It's most like a retrovirus," noted Kerryn, "The type that the human body is least well equipped to deal with. But it stays consistent; according to the quick and dirty data coming out of CDC, it didn't mutate like RNA viruses usually do. That was one of the weird things about it. Although, if it was a deliberate construction, it makes sense; you want your biological weapon to keep on doing what you want it to do." She looked down at the table. "Who made these notes?"

"I did," Kelly said. "My background was genetics before I took up Hunting; I haven't been in the lab for a long time."

Kerryn ran her eyes over the page. "This... couldn't work," she said distantly, "I hate to bust your bubble straight away, but it couldn't work. In theory, maybe parts of it, yeah, but… leave aside for a moment that this acts like a retrovirus, one that doesn't shift. You'd need a lab, and you'd need a culture facility, and you'd need at least RG3 containment, they were handling it at RG4 in Atlanta, that's the moon suits, and you'd need a PCR engine and a scanner and a sequencer, and you'd need reagents, restriction enzymes, and buffers, and a working autoclave, and RNase-free materials, and..."

"Not if we don't care about publishing," said Kelly. "We're not trying to win a Nobel Prize here, Kerryn. We just want to save the world. Come up with an anti-virus sequence, let it out into the wild, and see what happens. We got nothing to lose. Except a whole bunch of Croats."

Kerryn looked down at the notes on the page again, mentally editing in what she knew from her friend in Atlanta and her own experience. "Maybe the shotgun approach," she mused, "Theoretically. If you were even going to think about trying this. It hasn't been used in molecular biology for decades, because we can pick more specific gene and protein targets now, or at least we could, before everything turned to shit."

"Did it work?" asked Sam.

"Well, sometimes, yeah," Kerryn replied. "When it was the only strategy available. But generating thousands and thousands of random clones, and hoping that one of them has what you want, it was slow, it was inefficient, it took a lot of the time, there was no guarantee of success, and you could spend weeks just trying to get a single hit, and then lose it for no apparent reason..."

"Great!" chirped Frankie. "So, how do we do it?"

* * *

And Ulfric is still threatening poor Fergus with the talking stick as we speak. He'll have the next chapter to go very soon, so send reviews because they are the Juicy Tidbits Of Gossip In The Tattoo Parlour Of Life!


	16. Chapter 16

I think that after this, I shall grab the talking stick away from Ulfric. Maybe I can even fend the little bastards off with it, just for a short while... anyway, I'll post this as soon as Ulfric finishes, and you guys can give me separate reviews for each new chapter, yes?

And for the record, I cannot for the life of me think of a way to stuff Sam in a box in this story. Seriously. He'd just shapeshift, and burst apart whatever box it was. As for Sam and Kevin hugging... le sigh. Denizens. They has teh pushy. Maybe if I include a chicken. Is it all right if I include a chicken?

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

Kerryn gawped at Frankie. _That's funny,_ her mind observed, _For a minute there, I thought these people were seriously suggesting that we might be able to do something to stop the Croatoan virus. Aren't we lucky to have found a place where everybody has such a great sense of humour?_

They all stared at her keenly. Sam's face reminded her of the expression Lottie used when trying to solicit bacon.

"Well," she stuttered eventually, "I guess, say you tried to do this on the bench. Or at the very least, in a clean box. An improvised clean box. A barely effective, cut-holes-in-a-crate clean box. Assuming we could get a sample of the virus, and assuming we could handle it safely, and assuming we could find a way to keep out contaminants, and assuming we could isolate it and propagate it, we'd still need highly specialized reagents to even try. And the bio-pharma companies, research supply chains, fell apart just as fast as everything else."

"And that's where our expedition comes into it," Kelly announced triumphantly. "We got a whole bunch of stuff from a college lab – we had to go quite a way to find one that hadn't lost power completely, and there's a really good chance that it's all still viable. Expiry dates were always a total rip-off anyway. We got the stuff, and we can improvise equipment. We got an honest-to-Cas AP geek here," she indicated Kevin. "What we need is someone with the right brain." She stared hard at Kerryn. "And that's you."

"But... what would happen?" Kerryn asked. "Let's say you did cobble together some antiviral sequence, then what? You got no way of verifying it. You got no idea of what it'll do..."

"Go walk a mile in any direction, and you'll find a whole bunch of test subjects," interjected Fic. "In fact, they'll come to you."

"How?" Kerryn demanded. "How do you get a bunch of those Croat things, things that use to be people, and then, what, infect them? Vaccinate them? Do their bodies even still work like they used to? And what about side-effects? What about surviving people? If you wanted this to work, you'd have to make it airborne. What if you don't get this thing right, and it turns out that it infects humans? What if it makes things worse? What if it mutates? What if..."

"You know who she sounds like?" Frankie rolled her eyes. "She sounds just like Ian."

"I don't want to make things any worse!" snapped Kerryn.

"Kerryn," Fic's voice was stern, "You've been out there. You've seen what's out there. The apocalypse has been stopped, but it could still be the end of the world. Well, the end of humanity, at least. The end of the world may follow, depending on just how much fighting Hell's factions do here. How many enclaves like ours do you think there are? How long do you think we can do more than just survive as a species like this, barricading ourselves in, and doing our best to repel boarders? If nothing changes, all we're doing is delaying the inevitable: the remnants of humanity will be picked off, piece by piece, until we no longer exist. Do you really think it can _get_ any worse?"

"But..." Kerryn stared at the paper, a connection with her former life that seemed an age ago, back when people didn't get sick and try to tear each other to bits and eat the pieces, when her happy little boy was just that. Her treacherous, inquisitive mind redrew the diagram, wanted to ask what they'd scavenged; to her horror, she found she was planning a first-cut screening experiment. "I…" she dropped the paper, and ran from the room.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It all looked so normal, that's what messed with her head, it all looked so _normal_. People walking by, talking, laughing, accompanied by their dogs. Beverly, still pedalling, gave her a cheerful wave. A protesting child was being herded gently but firmly in the direction of what was presumably the school room. In the distance, she saw Fergus kneeling by some bushes, presumably talking to them.

It was so fucking normal. But beyond the fence, the world was falling apart, one animated corpse at a time. And these people expected her to be able to stop it.

What she really wanted was a place to hide. No, what she really wanted was a hole to crawl into, or maybe just to crawl into her own head; they had a few people like that in the camp, whose sense of reality had given out. They were treated with compassion, the dazed and confused or the walking catatonic. It would be a relief, if not for her son, to give up, and just fall backwards into her own head where none of this was happening.

She found her feet taking her towards the hermit's hut, possibly because it was a place that everybody seemed to avoid. She slumped down against the wall, noting idly that the orange was gone. There was a shuffling from behind the wall.

"Don't," she said, taking some deep breaths, "Just, just don't, I just have to…"

She wasn't sure how long she sat there before she suddenly looked up and found Dean watching her. His expression wasn't angry. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said, grinning slightly, "But frankly, wherever you were, a Croat could've snuck up on you." There was a rumble from within the hut. "No offence, dude," he added. "Figure of speech."

"They want me to make an anti-virus," she said dully, "Sam and Fic and Kelly and the others. They seem to think I can make an anti-virus. To fix…" she waved a hand vaguely at the nearest part of the fence. "That. Out there."

"Well, we're not completely unreasonable," he shrugged, "I doubt you can do much about climate change, or diminishing fossil fuel reserves, or boy bands. We just want you to save humanity."

She stared at him. There was not a trace of sarcasm in him. "You're serious," she breathed, "You're absolutely serious. All of you."

"Well, it is a pretty serious situation," he pointed out. "Which is why we need you to be… are you really going to be an evil overlord, with minions? I like that."

"No! I mean…" she floundered for the words. "I'm just a biologist! I'm competent enough, but I'm not brilliant. I'll never get a paper published in _Nature_. I know about yeast, and the viruses that infect them, but I don't know anything about saving people! I don't know about… zombie apocalypses," she finished lamely. "I'm… I'm not like you," she went on, "I'm not brave, and I can't shoot to save myself, and I can't save anybody else, either. I can barely keep my boy safe. I have enough trouble thinking straight at the best of times; Keith always said that I was born to be an absent-minded professor, it's a miracle that we got this far with me calling the shots. This is…" She turned pleading eyes on him. "I can't do this. You need somebody else who can do this. I can't. I'm sorry. All this… I could screw it up so badly. It's too important. It's too big. You need somebody else."

Chuckling gently, he sat down beside her. "You know, if Fic was here, she'd say, "He throws us all in at the deep end, but He never throws us out further than we can swim. Not without a pool noodle." If it was Bobby, he'd say, "I don't wanna hear it, Missy, you just high-tail your fanny back there and make a start." Or if it was Cas, he'd do the Eye Sex Stare Of Doom at you."

"What about the doctor guy?" she asked shakily, "The one that Fic's sweet on?"

"How do you know about Doctor Dracula?" he asked, laughing. "Oh, yeah, she'll never admit it, but she's got a thing for Ian. One demo of his original accent, and she was hooked. I think he'd be on your side. To which I'd say, it's all right for you, pal, you're already dead. But the rest of us…" He sighed. "I get where you're comin' from, believe me, I really do. But we got nothing to lose here, Kerryn. We can sit tight, and wait for the demons or the Croats to get us, or we can try something, even a long shot, and fail, and then wait for the demons or the Croats to get us, or we can try, and who knows, maybe make Lady Luck our bitch this one time. If we try," he gave her a cocky grin, "At least we go down swingin'. And if we go down swingin', who knows how much time we might buy for someone else to figure something out?"

"Just like Ronnie," she found a small smile of her own.

"Exactly like Ronnie," he agreed, standing up and offering her a hand. "Now, how about some more tea, then you can go back to ordering your minions around?" He waggled his eyebrows. "I could get you a whip."

"We'll need a PCR machine," she said, "At least, we'll need some way to cycle the temperature, unless we can pull off a rolling circle amplification, which might even work better without a DNA engine…"

"I got no idea what you're talkin' about," he said cheerfully, "But I'm sure Kelly and Samantha will understand. Hey," he paused, "If we sneak quietly around a couple of buildings, we can get a look at Fergus talking to the blueberries. If Dale and Arjan can get us a hydroelectric thing happening, the first thing I'm gonna do is charge my phone, and get footage of him chatting up the shrubbery."

"I can't tell people what to do!" she protested. "There must be a hundred people who'd be better qualified than me!"

Maybe there are," he gave her an attenuated version of The Stare, "But none of 'em made it here. You did. And you may not know as much as those hundred people," he jerked a thumb back towards the Den, "But you know more than them. So, let's go. Now, if we stick to the grass we'll be able to get close enough to eavesdrop."

She gave him a long stare. "Well," she said slowly, "We'll have to isolate some yeasts, so, I guess, even if we screw up and humanity is doomed, we might at least be able to give something to Becky and Chuck, so we can die eating doughnuts and drinking beer, right?"

"Now you're getting the idea!" Dean enthused, smiling cheerfully.

As they made to leave, there was a gruff snuffling from the hut behind them, and Dean paused briefly to reply, and rumble back.

"It's okay, big guy, I got this." _Our pack is safe, den-sire. She will Hunt. In her own way._

"Is it just me," she asked, "Or does everybody here seem, kind of, blasé about a zombie apocalypse, and screwing with a demon-engineered virus in the hope of stopping it while potentially messing it up and making things worse to the point where we destroy the last small vestiges of the human race?"

"Apocalypse-ashmockalypse," Dean snorted dismissively, "We've done this before. If Fate or Karma or God or Destiny or any of those sonsofbitches didn't want us to fool recklessly with the future of all humanity, they wouldn't keep backin' us into corners the way they do." He held a finger to his lips. "Now, just around this building, then behind that shed, and… oh, for fuck's sake, can you hear that?"

A swirl of breeze brought the sound to them.

"At buchts, in the mornin, nae blythe lads are scornin,  
Lassies are lanely and dowie and wae  
Nae daffin, nae gabbin, but sighin and sabbin,  
The Flooers o the Forest are a' wede awa…"

Biting on their tongues to keep from laughing, they spent a few minutes listen to the King of Hell serenading the blueberry bushes with 'Flowers of the Forest'.

* * *

Poor Crowley. Poor, poor Crowley. Is there no end to the depth of the humiliation that shall be visited upon him, in this AU Jimiverse, or in fact, any other iteration of the Jimiverse?

Send reviews, because they are the Unexpectedly Hilarious Performances Of Folk Music In The Garden Of Life!


	17. Chapter 17

Damned plot bunnies, the little #%$^ers are double-teaming me...

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

Frankie and Fic watched as Kerryn peered at the small bottle, and sighed. "You did this batch, didn't you, Fic?"

"Yeah," confirmed Sister Felicity, just a touch defensively.

"I know that," Kerryn said, "Because it's crawling. Your sterile technique is shit, Fic."

"Well, the 'cultures' I usually deal with are multi-cellular organisms that have immune systems," complained Fic, "They can largely deal with bugs on their own, mostly."

"I think maybe you should take over sterilisation duty," Kerryn decided. "Get Beverly to show you how to use his pressure cooker." She paused. "Actually, why don't I have Beverly on my team? He understands this sort of thing. His 'teaching batch' of jars was perfect."

"You could always ask Dean," suggested Frankie, "Although Beverly's been kinda busy, getting everybody tattooed. So, anything coming up?"

"We might have a bit more success, there," Kerryn answered, absently rubbing at her shoulder where her new tattoo was a bit itchy. "It's not possible to tell for sure, without stains and PCR, and a solid selection medium would make it easier…"

"Not a Nobel Prize application," Fic reminded her.

"But, but," Kerryn butted in, "I was getting to the but, but, I've looked at a lot of morphology, and I think there are some more isolated colonies coming up that we can use. You got a talent for hunting down yeasts as well as fuglies, Frankie. AND your technique is pretty good. You can help with the subculturing this afternoon."

"Evil overlord's pet," grumbled Fic melodramatically.

Kerryn frowned at the whiteboard she'd commandeered from the school rooms, contemplating the flow diagrams and doodles she'd drawn there. "How's Dean and his pack coming with that hood?"

"Kelly explained the principles to him, with the plans you drew up," Fic continued as Frankie stuck out her tongue smugly, "He's gonna try to knock something together. It'll take longer if it has to be metal."

"It cannot be wood," Kerryn said firmly, "Absolutely not. Laminate, an old kitchen table, even, but it cannot be wood. We'll be swamped with everything except what we want. What about my disinfectant?"

"Simon and his apprentices are running some test batches," Frankie replied, "Otherwise, it's still just Chuck's surgical liqueur."

"Well, it's better than nothing," shrugged Kerryn, peering gloomily at the contaminated medium again as Kelly joined them. "Hey, Kelly, any word about the DNA cycler?"

"Dean and Kevin have been over your specs and discussed it," Kelly said, joining her in contemplation of contamination, "But let's face it, those things are high tech geek chic. We don't have an electronics store down the street to get specialist parts. You did this one, didn't you, Fic?"

"Shut up."

"Anyway," Kelly rolled her eyes, "Kevin has been busy, with Sam, as you're no doubt well aware…"

"Don't remind me," Fic griped, "I sneezed the other day, and before I could wipe my nose, there they were, with their damned swabs, going for a nostril each!"

"Well, finding something we can use will be hit and miss," Kerryn reminded them, "A flu-like virus would be ideal. Avian would be best, but we'll take what we can get."

"That would explain why they've been lurking around the chicken pen," noted Fic. "Garth got quite annoyed. Said they were freaking Mrs Flappity out. He growled at Sam!"

"Wow," breathed Frankie," Mrs Flappity must've been totally stressed out."

"At the very least, we know that our labours have not been in vain," grinned Kelly, producing a cloth from which a marvellous aroma of baked goods arose. "That wild _Saccharomyces_ you gave to Becky? It worked!" From the dishcloth she produced some small bread rolls. With noises of appreciation, the women oohed and aahed over the still-warm buns, and tore into them.

"Oh, oh, that is so goooood," Frankie moaned, "It's been so long since we've had actual leavened bread, I was starting to think I was Jewish."

"That's only for Pesach. Passover," clarified Sister Fic around a mouthful of bread. "Oh, you know, for this, I'd have cheerfully put up with a few plagues."

"It's almost sweet dough," noted Kelly, "Making its own sugars?"

"Can't science, eating," hummed Kerryn, taking another bite.

The door banged, and Dean bounded into the room. "Oh, hey, the noises you lot were makin' in here, I thought there was some sort of girl-on-girl action happening," he leered, "Thought you might want some help with that."

"Fuck off, freak," Fic slapped his arm, "I'm your sister."

"And I'm your niece," added Frankie.

"I'm your brother's better half," said Kelly.

"I'm eating," said Kerryn. "So, yeah, fuck off, Fearless Leader."

Dean drooped with dramatic disappointment. "You can't talk to me like that!" he pouted.

"She's the Evil Overlord," Fic reminded him. "You should hear how she talks to us."

"You here for a reason?" asked Kelly. "Any progress on the builds?"

"Well, it was partly the smell of bread," Dean admitted. "And partly, I'm hiding. It was cold this morning, and I sniffled…"

The women all let out groans.

"You idiot!" snapped Fic. "You'll lead them straight here!"

"They're just taking their part of the project very… seriously," Kerryn said, not sounding completely convinced herself, "I've had some post-grads who didn't have the sort of, uh, enthusiasm for field work that those two do…"

"Dean? Dean!" The door banged open again, and Sam and Kevin burst in. "There you are!" Sam brandished an improvised swab. "Okay, then, just let me…"

"You stay the hell away from me!" yelped Dean., "You got me already!"

"A PCR analysis of Influenza A determined that approximately 15% of infections are asymptomatic," Sam informed them.

"And that was at the beginning of the week," Kevin told him, "You could be incubating something new, if you were asymptomatic then, but you could be symptomatic now."

"A similar study showed that the majority of viral shedding in symptomatic cases occurs within the first 2-3 days of illness," Sam went on. "So it's important that we get multiple samples from anybody who could possibly be incubating something."

"I'm not incubating something!" protested Dean, as Sam advanced with his swab.

"A reverse-transcript analysis of cases presenting to health care providers showed that more than 40% of people who presented with a strain of influenza didn't realise it and thought they had a 'bad cold'," said Sam, "Hold still, bro."

"Sam, I was just cold!"

"It's okay, dude, tomophobia, that is, the fear of medical tests, is more prevalent than is generally acknowledged," Sam announced. "A cohort study carried out over three years found that…"

"Who the hell let him read that stuff?" squawked Dean, jumping backwards and glaring at Kerryn. "Was it you? Nice goin', evil overlord. Is your surname Frankenstein? Because your monster is loose!"

"Just let him do it, Dean," sighed Fic, "He's the Saminator; he absolutely will not stop until you are sampled."

"Just a quick dab at your nose, Dean," Sam smiled encouragingly. Dean growled. Sam's smile disappeared. "Don't be like that. I got a job to do here!" Dean growled again, and Sam rolled his eyes. "Great, okay, Kevin, just be ready…"

Pausing only to toe off his boots, Sam shapeshifted. With a tearing of fabric, Dean followed suit. The other occupants of the room jumped out of the way, and the two enormous werewolves began to wrestle.

"Not in my lab!" shrieked Kerryn, running to the door and opening it, "Not in my lab!" The snarling tangle of long limbs rolled out the door and onto the ground, with Kevin following anxiously, carefully holding his swab. A few people gathered to watch the show.

"Do I want to know?" asked Bobby as he wandered past casually.

"Oh, God, that's so hot," breathed Becky, "If only something could make them shapeshift back to human right now…"

"It's the swab," Kelly jerked a thumb at Kevin, "Dean sniffled this morning, and Sam heard it."

"Idjits," muttered the old man, before wandering off again.

When Sam finally got his brother pinned, there was a polite smattering of applause, then Kevin carefully touched his swab to Dean's nose. As soon as the sample was secured, Sam let his brother up.

Dean shifted back to human, the snarl still on his face. "For that, I will hurt you," he growled, "When you least expect it, Francis, you will know pain, and you will know outrage, and then I will laugh. Sleep well tonight." He stalked off in high dudgeon as Sam panted his amusement.

"So, Kevin," Kerryn trilled in the bright voice of a party hostess who is keen to change the subject immediately after somebody has got stuck into the gin, insulted the vicar's wife, groped a house plant and fallen face-first into the Frankfurter Spectacular, "Any progress on the PCR cycler?"

"Well, we don't exactly have the wherewithal to make you the sort of instrument that you'd be accustomed to," Kevin told her, "But we did have an idea..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

She was making notes and working on her next protocol when she heard the door to the building commandeered as a lab open. "Mooooom!" A moment later, Lottie came bounding in to greet her. She considered taking her son to task for letting a dog into a place where she was trying to do microbiology under decidedly primitive circumstances, but then decided that, if she had small grubby children and large grubby werewolves barging into the place already, a dog probably couldn't do too much more damage.

"I'm right here, on the same planet," Kerryn called back, patting Lottie and noticing that the dog's fur was damp. Nonetheless, she smiled to herself at the sound of her son's voice – her rational mind knew that being some place where he felt safe and had a form of normality to his daily life was what was responsible for Todd beginning to speak again, but to her it still felt like some sort of small miracle. "How was school?"

"Awesome!" he enthused, "We learned about electricity!"

"Yeah?" She turned to see her son, his still-damp hair sticking up, and groaned inwardly at the realisation that the lesson had included a large practical element. "Would this have anything to do with the hydro power plant that Dale is overseeing at the lake?"

"Totally!" beamed Todd, launching into a description of watching the electricals team winding the coils for the small power plant whilst Arjan the werebeaver adjusted the dam, "And then we did some swimming practice!"

"Swimming practice," she repeated, a certain note of disbelief in her voice.

He nodded solemnly. "Dean says that everybody has to know how to swim," he intoned piously. "He says that we all have to be able to get to the pontoon, because zombies can't follow us into deep water. He says that knowing how to swim might save your life one day."

"Right," she nodded, knowing that 'swimming practice' would also involve mud fights on the banks of the lake, getting rides with Arjan if he was there too, and the children's particular favourite aquatic activity, being picked up by the gargoyles and dropped back into the water. "And how high today?"

"Dean won't let us go over ten feet," Todd related with a certain reproachfulness, "He says that being able to land safely in water could be a life-saving skill one day. He goes higher, but it takes both the gargoyles to lift him out of the water while Bobby yells that he's an idjit."

"Bobby's right," grunted Kerryn.

"Bobby yells that we're all idjits," qualified Todd, "But he yells loudest at Dean. How's your science going?"

"Pretty good," she replied, sticking to the cover story that they were trying to find microbes that would have medicinal or practical applications. "We got a really good yeast for Becky, and she can make pretty good bread now, so maybe you'll get some at dinner."

"Cool!" said Todd, "Why was Sam trying to poke a swab up Bobby's nose?" Dean's pack of children had become expert at fashioning the swabs out of small pieces of fabric wrapped around slivers of timber, and had even enjoyed a brief lesson about bacteria and viruses from Beverly as they watched him sterilise a batch in the pressure cooker he used for his tattooing equipment, and amused them all with fascinating tales of terrible injuries sustained when badly maintained autoclaves exploded.

Kerryn blinked. "Uh, Sam tried to poke a swab up Bobby's nose?" she checked. "Are you sure?"

Todd nodded. "Bobby was doing a history lesson with us, about Romans, teaching us to say 'Romans go home' in Latin, and he sneezed, and Sam came in with a swab."

"Well," Kerryn went on smoothly with the cover story, "You know that antibiotics, medicine that call help make you better if you get sick from certain types of bug, mostly come from other bugs?" He nodded. "So, if we find something that might be useful, we have to test it on the sort of things that people have in their bodies normally, because a healthy person has all sorts of bugs living on them, doing no harm, and we don't want to wipe those out." She paused. "So, uh, what happened?"

"Oh, Bobby knocked Sam on his butt and put his teeth on his neck," Todd replied casually, "And when he shifted back he said, 'If you come near me again with that thing I'll shove it up your ass so far that you'll be able to taste shit, you hear me, boy?'."

"Right," Kerryn sighed inwardly, noting that her son did an unexpectedly accurate impersonation of the eldest of the Grumpy Old Men. "So, just another day in the state education system."

"I made this, in the shop," Todd took a small item from his pocket and presented it to his mother. It was a piece of soldering – he'd gravitated towards the metalwork shop, and was spending an hour or two there, under Sabine's tutelage. It was made from pieces of wire, and what looked like shards of plastic. The joins were not perfect, but it was recognisably a robot of some sort.

"Hey, that's great, sweetheart," she enthused.

"She says it'll be easier if we can get a proper power supply, and we can use the electric irons," he went on, "Like the ones Dad had." His face fell. "He was really good at it, wasn't he?"

The sudden stab at the back of her eyes caught her off guard; she made herself smile. "He sure was," she confirmed, "So maybe you've got some of his talent. God knows, he could never teach me to do anything except make splodges with the solder."

They were suddenly interrupted by the clanging of a bell; the orange bell, Kerryn realised. "Gotta go, Mom," Todd headed for the door, Lottie trailing after him, "But I'll see you at dinner!"

"Put your dirty clothes in the bucket!" she called after him, but he was gone. Through the window, she saw him joining with the flow of kids towards the mess, calling to a couple of them as he ran. Why are kids always in such a hurry, she wondered, even knowing that the oranges will be there, whether they run or not?

Shaking her head, she turned back to her diagrams.

A little while later, she saw Todd head across the compound, and wondered where he was going, until she saw him heading for the isolated hut. He left an orange at the door.

* * *

I did not make up Frankfurter Spectacular. It was real. Cas help us, it was real. Go and Google 'Weight Watchers recipe cards from 1974' on a site called candybootsDOTcom, and prepare to be… er, 'amazed' is not quite the word we're looking for. Bewildered? Bemused? Horrified? Terrified? Utterly, utterly discombobulated? Yeah, that's it. Prepare to be utterly, utterly discombobulated. You'll never look at melons the same way again. Go on, go and look at it. I dare you.

Send reviews, because they are the Delicious Buns* Still Warm From The Oven At The Morning Tea-Time Of Life!

*By 'buns', I mean, yeast-raised bread roll type things. NOT the sort of buns you find at the tops of the backs of Winchesters' legs. You pre-verts.


	18. Chapter 18

Well, I know that nobody went and looked up 'Weight Watchers recipe cards from 1974', because I cannot hear the sound of anybody's mind boggling. You're missing out. Who wouldn't burst into tears of astonishment at the mere sight of a Frankfurter Spectacular?

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

The installation of the small, cobbled-together-but-serviceable hydroelectric generator was an excuse for a celebration of sorts; Dale the retired electrical engineer beamed until his head seemed fit to fall in half, and the younger werewolves went out to bring down another deer for a spit roast dinner.

"Plus, Dale thinks we can get the lights on again, a lot more reliably than the generator!" enthused Fic.

"Just think," grinned Dean, "Sam will be able to plug in his hot rollers and his hair dryer!"

"Do you think we could get a real autoclave working?" asked Beverly hopefully, sharing a piece of his bread roll with Tim the Pom Of Death. "The pressure cooker works, but it's really clumsy, and slow, and stuff comes out wet, which isn't really optimal for culture vessels."

"Culture vessels?" Bobby cocked an eyebrow.

"He's been poached by Kerryn," shrugged Dean, "Now that all the anti-possession tatts are done."

"I'm a minion!" proclaimed Beverly. "And I look forward to setting fire to that damned exercise bike. Also, Chuck has been pestering me to do bottles for beer, since we don't have anything that'll work as a sanitiser. He thinks he can get a brew happening, now that the E.O. has given him some yeast that will most likely do the job…"

"E.O.?" queried Bobby.

"Evil Overlord," chorused Fic and Beverly.

"Shouldn't she technically be an Evil Overlady?" asked Bobby. "Or, if we're gonna go completely batshit crazy with the whole political correctness thing, Evil Overperson?"

"Evil Overlord sounds better," shrugged Fic. "Plus, it's the job description; gender isn't relevant."

Bobby wandered off, muttering to himself about asking the E.O. to look for a cure for virulent idjitry.

"So, how's it goin'?" Dean asked his big sister.

"I can see why it's called a shotgun approach," Fic smiled ruefully. "We're ready to start mixing virus samples, and see if any of them… do anything. It's a good thing that Kelly and co. managed to get hold of some microplates, or we wouldn't have a hope of pulling this off, there are going to be thousands of tests…" she gazed steadily at her brother. "You do realise that there's no guarantee this will work?"

"Anything is better than sittin' here, waitin' for those assholes to find us," Dean growled.

"I agree. I just… I don't want to give you false hope," she clarified. "Not that you'd know it, to see the E.O. She's got all these doodles and diagrams and these vector maps that I can't decipher; when she's in The Zone, I can't understand a damned word she says."

"That sounds like science," nodded Dean, rubbing his nose on the back of his sleeve, "Or at least, it sounds like a couple of chemistry teachers I had…"

"Dean, is your nose running?" came Sam's voice from behind him. "Because the Evil Overlord says they're nearly ready to…"

"Sam, if you come near me with a swab, I swear, I will shove it up your…"

"Look, I don't know how many times I've explained that we need as many samples as possible! Everybody else is being cooperative, and it's not invasive."

"Havin' my brother forever chasin' me around, tryin' to poke sticks up my nose counts as invasive in my book!"

"Will you stop being such a jerk? Look, you know the drill, all I have to do is just touch it to your nose, and…"

_Snaaaaaaaaarl_

As the two minions watched what the camp's inhabitants usually referred to as WWE (werewolf wrestling entertainment), there was a faint_ flap-flap_ noise behind them.

"Hello, Felicity. Hello Beverly."

"Eeeep!" Fic jumped on the spot, and sighed. "Hello, Castiel." She waved a hand at the wrestling werewolves. "Don't mind them, just another argument over a swab…"

"Bobby! Bobby!" RJ's voice broke in on them, "Has anybody seen Bobby?" He carefully sidestepped his wrestling father and uncle. "Hi, Cas. Where's Bobby? Dale wants his know-how. Wants 'another old guy who knows how to help this old guy with an old transformer'."

Castiel concentrated briefly. "He is in one of the school rooms, with the most junior class. Return to assisting Dale, RJ," the angel forestalled the teen, "Seeing as your father is… unavailable, I shall alert Bobby as to the requirement for his assistance."

"Thanks, Cas!" RJ turned and took off again, nimbly jumping over the grapple as it rolled into his path.

"Should we go and tell Becky?" suggested Beverly, as the two werewolves tangled on the ground, Dean attempting to bite the end off Sam's swab, "She loves to watch this – it never gets old for her."

"Nah," Fic waved a hand, "She's doing an experimental batch of doughnuts. Leave her to it."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The schooling arrangements at the camp referred to as Singer Salvage were as organised as they could be, under the circumstances. The children were accommodated as best possible in mixed grade classes, and there were some people with teaching qualifications who usually taught them. However, since Qiao Xin had delivered her baby, the arrangements for her class had been somewhat ad hoc, depending on who was available. Nonetheless, they liked history lessons with Bobby, because he usually left out the boring stuff like long lists of dates, and concentrated on the interesting bits; for example, they usually managed to steer him towards the parts where people started dying off in various interesting ways.

"So, imagine how long it would take, if you had to copy out every book from another book," he held up the copy of _Huckleberry Finn_ that the class had been enjoying, "Because that's how books were made before the printin' press with moveable type was invented."

"What's 'moveable type'?" asked one little girl.

"That's where you can change the letters around after you've used 'em, to make a different page," Bobby explained, "To make it like a great big ink stamp, and this was an invention that really changed the world, because it meant that people could write down their ideas, and get it printed, and send it around to lots of other people."

"Like Twitter?" asked a young boy.

"No," his older brother rolled his eyes, "They didn't _have_ Twitter back then. It was like email."

"They didn't have computers at all, because they didn't have electricity at all," Bobby informed them. The class went silent in horror at the idea of no electricity, and even worse, no Angry Birds. "But, all of a sudden, there was a way to send your ideas and your thoughts to other people, by makin' lots of copies, and…"

"How did they read if there wasn't electricity for lights or Kindles?" asked she of the moveable type query.

"Well, they had to use candles, or lamps," Bobby replied, "But not even as good as the ones we've got, they were dirty, and not very bright, so…"

"What if you needed to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night?" a small girl asked,

"What?" queried Bobby.

"Well," she explained, frowning thoughtfully, "What if you had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Did you have to get Mommy or Daddy to light a candle for you?"

"My Mom would get really annoyed if I did that," muttered one boy, and a couple of others murmured their agreement.

"Well," Bobby began, "Back when the printin' press was first bein' put into use, that was the 1450s, so it's more'n five hundred years ago, people didn't have, uh, bathrooms, the way we understand them…"

"No bathrooms?" asked another girl, sounding horrified.

"Hey, did that mean that you never had to have a bath?" enthused a boy who looked like he wasn't fond of standing too close to the soap when required to attend the ablutions block. "Awesome!"

"Uh, well, actually, a lot of people hardly ever had baths," Bobby nodded, "They hardly ever washed…"

"No showers?" Master Grubby sounded as if the brutish, nasty and short nature of life for the average European in the mid fifteenth century would be a small price to pay for the luxury of never being required to bathe.

"No, they weren't invented – if you did want to have a bath, you had to heat up water on a fire, and put a tub in your bedroom, or the living room, in front of the fire, then…"

"But what if someone came in and _saw_?" wailed one horrified little girl.

"…But the, uh, bathroom thing, no, they didn't have the, uh, rest-room facilities we know about today…"

"You could just go outside, and use a tree," another boy said dismissively.

"But somebody might _see_!" complained the girl who was appalled at the idea of semi-public bathing.

"They had chamber pots," Bobby told them, "So, once the printing press became established, it was soon regarded as…"

"And what about, you know," another student ventured, "If you gotta go, you know…"

"You could dig a hole," shrugged Master Use-A-Tree, "Like camping."

"That's gross!' a small girl screwed up her face. "And what if it's raining?"

"Servants," stated Master Grubby firmly, "They all had lots of servants, in those days. You'd get a servant to hold an umbrella for you. So you didn't get wet."

"Actually," Bobby broke in, "Umbrellas didn't come into use in Europe for another couple of hundred years, but the printing press was deemed by some to be a dangerous…"

"I'm not going to the bathroom in front of a servant!" declared Miss Decorum, crossing her arms.

"What about servants?" asked another boy, "Who held the umbrella for them?"

"Well, a _lower_ servant, duh," Master Know-It-All rolled his eyes.

Bobby scrubbed a hand over his face, and prayed for patience. What he actually got was an angel.

"Hello, Bobby. Hello, class."

"Hello, Castiel," chorused the class dutifully, as Bobby tried not to jump in surpriset.

"Hey there, Feathers," he acknowledged, "What brings you here?"

"I bring a message from Dale, regarding the hydroelectric generator," intoned the angel seriously, "He is seeking your assistance due to your expertise in recommissioning outdated machinery."

"Well, I'm supposed to be tellin' this lot about the effects of the printin' press on history, and where books come from," Bobby jerked a thumb at the class. "But we've ended up talking about bathrooms. Again." He paused. "Come to think of it, we always seem to end up talkin' about bathrooms. Well, they end up talkin' about bathrooms…"

"Perhaps I could watch over the class while you assist Dale," suggested Castiel.

Bobby gave him a dubious look. "Uh, do you really think that is a good idea?"

Castiel drew himself up. "I am an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven. Watching over humanity is one of my duties. And my extensive knowledge of human history will enable me to answer all of their questions."

"Well, uh, okay," agreed Bobby, "But I'll be back as quick as I can, or I'll send somebody over soon as possible." He waved a hand at a box on the teacher's desk. "There's some stamps and stuff in there for 'em to have a go at doin' their own printing," he added, "So let them use those after the lesson."

"Very well," Castiel's face became grave as he faced the class. "Good morning, boys and girls. Bobby has some important work to do, so I will be supervising your class temporarily."

There was an anticipatory silence, so Bobby left them to it.

"The printing press existed in some form for many years before the mass printing moveable type model was introduced by Johannes Gutenberg. In China, and in Korea, the same principle was applied some hundreds of years before Herr Gutenberg was… " a hand went up. "Yes?"

"Are you really an angel?" asked Todd. "I mean, your wings, and the appearing thing, it's not some trick, you're really an angel?"

"I am an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven," Castiel repeated seriously. Another hand went up. "Yes?"

"When do we get to the bit about people dying?" demanded a pupil.

"Quite soon, unfortunately," replied Castiel, "Because the printing press came into what we could call wide scale use just as the Catholic Church in western Europe was undergoing a major schism…"

"What's a skizzum?" asked Miss Decorum.

"Schism," Castiel repeated the word, "It means a disagreement followed by a split or a division, where people who previously agreed with each other no longer do so."

"Oh, that," Master Know-It-All scoffed, "My mom and dad do shhh-kizzums all the time."

"Me and my brother get in trouble when we shhh-kizzum," confided Master Use-A-Tree, "Even when he starts the shhh-kizzuming, we both get into trouble. It's so not fair."

"Big brothers suck," announced one girl grumpily.

"A religious schism is a very serious matter," Castiel resumed, "In this case, it stemmed from a number of factors, such as a generalised recognition of hypocrisy and decadence within the pontificate, and the interpretation of the Bible by Martin Luther, wherein he asserted that…"

"We have a school holiday for him!" a youngster piped up.

"That is Martin Luther King Day," Castiel corrected, "Martin Luther King was a prominent equal rights activist; Martin Luther was a German monk who protested against the sale of indulgences by…"

"What's a 'indulgence'?" asked a small girl.

"It's a type of ice-cream," answered another. "It's really good. I miss ice-cream."

"I miss ice-cream, too," sighed another child, to a general muttering of agreement on the desirability of frozen dairy desserts.

"Do you like ice-cream, Castiel?" asked Miss Decorum. "Do you have ice-cream in Heaven?"

"No," Castiel replied, "Ice-cream is not relevant to today's lesson, which concerns the advent of the printing press. Its invention played a major role in the distribution of…" He realised that the entire class was staring at him in horror. "Is something wrong?"

"There's… there's no ice-cream in Heaven?" asked a child in a small voice.

"Well, I'm not going!" stated a pouting six-year old.

"There is no ice-cream for me in Heaven," Castiel back-pedalled, "Because I do not need it. In the Heaven of a human soul, you may eat ice-cream whenever you wish."

"Why don't you have ice-cream?" pressed a budding theologian, "Don't you like it?"

"It'd be hard to eat ice-cream and play a harp," his neighbour pointed out.

"Angels do not need ice-cream," Castiel tried to explain, "As they do not need to eat, being sustained by their Grace."

"What's your Grace?" asked the would-be angelologist.

"It is the divine Power imparted to me by God, my Heavenly Father, to give me existence," Castiel said, struggling somewhat to keep up as the conversation segued effortlessly from the concept of eternal ice-cream to the nature of angels in a way that would've left Thomas Aquinas prostrate with fatigue.

"Oh, so it's, like, angel batteries?" queried the girl.

Castiel considered the idea. "Yes," seemed the easiest answer.

"What happens if your batteries run out?" asked Miss Decorum, sounding worried.

"My batteries do not run out…"

"But what if they did?" she pressed.

"Angels do not have batteries that run out…"

"But what if they _did_?"

"I assure you, they do not."

"But…"

"That's okay," Master Use-A-Tree reassured her, "We could get Beverly to hook him up to the bicycle, and recharge him."

"We'll all take turns to pedal to charge you up again, Castiel," offered another boy loyally.

"But that is…" Castiel looked into their earnest faces. "Very generous of you, and if, at any future juncture, I should feel myself running out of battery power, I will come here immediately to be… recharged."

There were smiles all around as a theological conundrum was solved to the satisfaction of all.

"So, let us return to the printing press. Once religious tracts challenging established church dogma were being widely circulated…"

"Do people start dying soon?" Master Grubby wanted to know.

Castiel looked at his audience. He was supposed to be instructing them on the massive upheaval brought about in Western society by the single innovation of the printing press, and the amazing human ingenuity that made mass production of books possible, but they didn't seem to be terribly interested in that. Fortunately, having spent a lot of time with Dean Winchester, he was familiar with the concept of 'short attention span' and 'selective interest'. He reformulated his plan.

"Yes," he stated. "Right away. Catholics hunted down and burned Lutheran printings. Then they hunted down and burned Lutherans. Then they hunted down and burned English Protestants. Then Protestants hunted down and hanged Catholics. Then Lutherans hunted down and killed each other. Then Protestants killed each other for not being the right sort of Protestant, whilst Catholics went East, and killed Muslims, who killed them right back, and everybody killed Jews when they found them, and Catholics killed other Catholics for not being Catholic enough, then the Catholics burned the Protestants some more, then later the non-Catholic Christians also schismed and formed further offshoot sects, and they were hunted down to be burned or hanged or otherwise killed, and they all went on to persecute each other through history up until and into modern times." He paused. "The end," he added.

The class applauded.

"People really got that angry, just over books?" Miss Decorum didn't sound completely convinced.

"Yes," Castiel, "Because books and pamphlets were suddenly a way to spread ideas quickly." He looked into the box on the desk. "We will now use these stamps to do some printing of our own, as a practical activity," he announced.

Given that the school was pulled together out of the wreckage of a small hold-out against the zombie apocalypse, it wasn't surprising that the collection of items that had been scrounged wasn't very big.

"We don't have all the letters here," Master Know-It-All announced with a humph.

"I got an elephant," venture Todd, waving the stamp, "Don't know how many people would get angry about an elephant stamp."

"The point is, you can produce multiple images of an elephant quickly with a stamp, much more quickly than if you had to draw the elephant each time," indicated Castiel.

"It would take forever to make a book like this!" complained Miss Decorum, looking at the small stamp with room for only a couple of words in the die.

"A printing press is much larger," Castiel told her, "And can print whole pages at a time."

"Well, what does one look like?" demanded Master Grubby.

Castiel cocked his head; it was a fair question. He did not think that Bobby would approve of him transporting a class of under-tens to fifteenth-century Germany – besides, such a large expenditure of angelic energy would be noticed if there was a demon around who cared to watch – but maybe a less risky compromise could be reached.

"Could I have everybody stand back on this side of the room."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Kerryn's mind was on the problem of acquiring and isolating a sample of the Croatoan virus – it would have to be a very general protocol, because she'd have no robust way of determining what she had growing, but given what she'd been able to glean from her friend at CDC, she was pretty sure that if she used a basic filtrate, she'd get enough material to start setting up her mass screening tests. Mix the samples Sam and Kevin had collected with some Croatoan, and… see if anything useful turned out. The very crudity, the scattergun approach, the sheer reliance on blind chance and luck and not much else was an affront to her years of training and experimentation, but under the circumstances, what other choice was there?

Not a Nobel Prize application, she reminded herself sternly. And Dean was right. Better to do something, anything, no matter how long a shot it was, than do nothing…

"Mooooom!"

"In here," she called absently, wondering whether it would be worth throwing in some of the precious reserves of enzyme to see if that would increase their chances of getting a recombination that would work, "How was school?" she added automatically.

"Awesome!" came the reply, "We did history with Castiel!"

"That's great, honey," she made another notation on her aggravatingly incomplete chromosome map, pulled from what she could remember, "So, did you…"

She turned, and let out a shriek at the apparition in front of her.

Todd's clothes, arms and face were smeared with black goo, interspersed with splotches of red. He wore a large grin, and clutched a piece of paper in one hand.

"What… what have you been doing?" she demanded.

"We learned about the printing press and setting people on fire!" he enthused, "And we did some printing! Only," he sounded a little disappointed, "Castiel said it would not be apportionate for us to set anything on fire."

"Appropriate," she corrected absently, taking in the sight before her.

"I made this," he held up a smeared page for her to see, "With moveable type!"

She peered at the page. In large, gothic style font, with plenty of smudging, it read:

_**I LOVE MY MOM**_

There were a couple of elephant stamps underneath the text.

"That's…." she had to chuckle. "That's great, sweetheart. I love it! Why don't you put it down here to let it dry, and we'll get you over to the ablutions block. Preferably without touching you."

She let his happy chatter about printing, skizzums, nailing things to doors and eating worms ("I think you mean the Diet of Worms, honey, 'Dee-et' of 'Vurms', it means a big meeting") wash over her as she herded him towards the ablutions block. As she did so, she noticed a number of other parents doing the same thing, including Dean trailing some members of his equally inky orphan pack. Some of the printing participants were still proudly clutching their handiwork.

Nobody noticed the small printed note later jammed into the door sill of the small isolated hut; Todd put it there, because he didn't want to leave nail marks in the wood. In the same heavy gothic typeface, it simply read:

_**thank you**_

At least, nobody human noticed. After night fell, the door opened a crack, and a large paw carefully removed the note, and took it back into the darkness.

* * *

Ah, children, the masters of mess, fuss and non-sequiturs. Once this whole zombie apocalypse is sorted out, I think it would be most educational for Castiel to take the class on some wholesome excursions, maybe back to the Salem witch trials to observe first hand the extent to which hysteria can make people behave ridiculously and dangerously. And maybe over to Spain to see some being set on fire.

Send reviews, because they're the Merrily Burning Heretics At The Inquisition Of Life! (Oh, come on, we all know somebody who annoys us so much we'd like to set them on fire, just a bit.)


	19. Chapter 19

Ah, yes, the difficulty of including in the cast a character who could, technically, just step in and use his or her super-dooper powers to solve a whole bunch of problems. In this story, Castiel cannot just use his angel mojo to summon up whatever the Evil Overlord needs, for a number of reasons:

- he is not there all the time; he is still Sheriff of Heaven, a job which requires nearly all of his time and energy. Since the majority of people killed off by the Croatoan virus were not destined for Hell, Heaven is very busy, and Varael, Senior Librarian and Archivist, is being particularly vigilant to ensure that nobody skimps on the documentation just because of a heavy case load. Cas drops in to Camp Singer Salvage as often as he can, to tend his garden patch and offer what assistance is possible.

- he has to minimise use of his angel mojo in order to avoid drawing the attention of the demons who are using the physical plane as one more grid square in their war. A quick little summoning of a 15th century printing press for educational purposes was barely a flick of a finger, and of negligible risk. For attracting demonic attention, anyway; he certainly attracted the attention of a number of adults when the kids came out of class covered in ink.

- getting hold of an autoclave is not the problem. They probably already have one, thanks to Beverly, or could salvage one quite easily. But autoclaves use a lot of electricity; without a reliable AC power supply and a high-amp circuit (or, for some of the big ones, three-phase power) it cannot run. Dale's hydro power plant might be able to help.

- most importantly of all, in the Jimiverse, if Castiel shows up as a deus ex machina and uses his angel mojo to fix everything, the Narrative Context Fairy will appear, and will hit him repeatedly over the head with her Wand Of Storyline Development until he goes away with a very bad headache. He has been warned.

As for Sam just handing people swabs to do their own sampling, well, if he did that, he couldn't be sure that they were doing it _properly_. Especially Dean.

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

"Do I want to know?" asked Kerryn, examining the jar of… stuff that Frankie held.

"Probably not," the teen shrugged, "But it made sense for me and RJ to go and get your sample of Croat blood. We know that if we get bitten, we get sick, but it doesn't kill us." She too peered at the clotting mess. "Uh, it did get a bit… exciting, at one point. There could be a bit of mine and his in there, too. But it's mostly Croat. It might be a good idea for me to do the filtration. Just in case. Get rid of the clotted elements. And any dog hair."

"I don't think it will be a problem," Kerryn said, "This thing doesn't have the ligands to let it cross pulmonary membranes. Now, if I'd been designing it, I'd have taken the time to give it a capacity for airborne transmission. I'd have given it haemagglutinin, H1 for preference…"

"She really would make a great actual Evil Overlord, wouldn't she?" commented Beverly, putting down another rack of jars, bottles and any suitable containers they'd scrounged for their culture vessels. "Make sure you lead a virtuous life, Kerryn; we can't afford to have you go Downstairs, tell them where they went wrong, and engineer Croat Apocalypse version 2.0."

"I am encouraged by the thought that they apparently didn't have a biologist to consult," noted Kerryn, "We must just be such nice people, we all go to Heaven."

"Or maybe they just couldn't understand a word you say," suggested Beverly, "You start speaking Science, you might as well as be talking Swahili."

"How will we know if this works?" asked Frankie, heading for the crude containment cabinet.

"I'll be eyeballing it," Kerryn replied grimly. "There's a, well, it's kind of hard to describe, but when you've looked at as many cultures as I have, you can recognise it. So, we set up as many innoculations as we can, then start adding in the swab samples." She looked worried. "I just hope something turns up."

There was a sudden commotion outside; the E.O. and her minions went to the window.

A brown chicken shot past at high speed, with people jumping out of the way. A moment later, Sam Winchester, followed by Kevin Tran, ran past in hot pursuit. They were trailed by Garth.

"Stop that chicken!" yelled Sam.

"Watch the swab!" shouted Kevin, "Don't contaminate the swab!"

"Sam! Sam!" yowled Garth, "You leave Mrs Eggity alone THIS MINUTE!" He let out a growl, which Sam apparently ignored.

"What the…" Kerryn pushed a window open, and called to Sister Fic, who wandered along with her doctor's bag. "Fic! What the hell is going on?"

"What does it look like?" the nun rolled her eyes. "My eager beaver little brother is attempting to frighten one of my patients to death." She paused as the chicken shot out from under a bush and shot between her legs in the other direction, then jumped backwards as Sam barrelled through.

"Come back here you stupid bird!" he shouted, as Kevin followed him with further imprecations to be mindful of the swab, and Garth pursued them both with dire threats of the consequences of chicken-startling.

"A chicken is your patient?" Kerryn blinked.

"Oh, yeah, Fic is our vet as well as our doctor," Beverly said airily. "She performed an emergency fingerectomy on Timothy after he bit off more than he could chew when some Croats got in here, didn't she, cuddly-puppy?" At his owner's side, Tim the Pom Of Death wagged his tail.

"Do chickens peck the fingers off Croats?" asked Kerryn. "You got killer chickens here?"

"No," smiled Fic, "But they do get sick. Garth came to see me earlier, worried that Mrs Eggity was a bit off her food; frankly, he has a tendency to panic a bit about any perceived health problem, so…"

Kerryn rushed out of the lab building and up to Fic. "Is she sick?" she asked, "Was she, say, running a temperature?"

"Maybe half a degree," Fic shrugged, "Probably the equivalent of a chicken cold…"

The chicken, who looked sprightly enough, suddenly dashed across the open ground. Sam made a mighty leap, and face-planted – with a squawk, Mrs Eggity shot off in a different direction, leaving him spitting out dirt.

Garth came rushing up. "Fic, will you talk some sense into your baby brother? He can't go chasing Mrs Eggity around like this!"

Mrs Eggity zigged, zagged, and sped away around the building. Kerryn pushed Garth out of the way, and set off in pursuit.

"Somebody stop that chicken!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Bobby had been a Hunter for more years than he cared to remember. He had stalked, tracked and trapped some of the most evil, vicious, cunning and dangerous creatures ever to walk the planet. And while he was always the first one in to help however he could, he couldn't help but have a nagging feeling that this was, somehow, beneath his talents, his experience, and above all, his dignity.

"Explain to me exactly why we're lyin' in wait for a damned chicken," he grumbled.

"Because chasing her was completely ineffective," griped Sam. He'd landed on his face a number of times in pursuit of Mrs Eggity, and that had done nothing for his temper. "How the fuck does that happen? It's a frigging chicken! What does Garth feed 'em? That thing runs like Usain Bolt! Since when do domestic chickens have super evasion powers? What is it, a bonsai Roadrunner?"

"No, no, no," snapped Bobby, "Why, as in, why do you want to catch this particular chicken?"

"For fowl purposes?" suggested Dean with a grin.

Sam kicked his brother. "Because if Mrs Eggity is sick, she could be carrying an avian Orthomyxovirus," he replied, "The influenza virus as we know it came from avian populations. If this anti-Croatoan is to have a snowball's chance in Hell of working, it has to be airborne. That trait originated in avian retroviruses. Kerryn says that, if Mrs Eggity is carrying a virus that has an H-gene, and we get lucky with an H1 or H5 subtype…"

"He catch this from her?" asked Bobby.

"I think so," answered Dean gloomily. "But in her defence, he was already like that when she found him. She's just an enabler."

Sam gave them both a resigned look. "Mrs Eggity could be carrying Croatoan kryptonite in her nose," he said.

"There, why didn't you just say it in English first time?" demanded Dean.

"Shhhhhh!" hissed Sam, taking a deep breath and huffing in frustration; Mrs Eggity had led him on a frantic chase all over the enclosed compound, and now the scent of startled poultry was everywhere. "Have you ever noticed how chickens all smell the same?"

"Yep," agreed Dean happily, "Delicious."

"Don't let Garth hear you say that," warned Bobby, "Mrs Eggity is one of his best layers."

"Too late," rumbled a voice behind them; Garth was glaring at Dean, putting Bobby in mind of a Beagle giving a Rottweiler The Stare. "Mrs Eggity will finish her career as a professional provider of eggs – if she ends up in the pot before then, Dean Winchester, I will come looking for you."

I go all tingly when he gets assertive like that," grinned Dean. Sam kicked him again.

"Anyway, you're wasting your time," Garth went on, "Mrs Eggity might be a chicken, but she's not stupid. She'll have gone to ground somewhere. Beverly and Frankie are staking out the coop, but my guess is, she'll stay put until dark, and may even roost where she is." He glared at Sam. "If she holes up somewhere, feeling sick, it'll be all your fault."

"Great," muttered Sam, "Outsmarted by a fucking chicken." The thumping of large teenage feet presaged RJ's arrival. "Any luck?" he asked his nephew.

"Not a peep," sighed RJ. "Or a squawk. Even with the kids helping. She's gone into hiding."

"Well, the savin' of humanity will just have to wait for a day or so," pronounced Bobby philosophically. "I aint spendin' any more time chasin' around after a stealth chicken. It's ridiculous, is what it is, it's…"

"For the birds?" suggested Dean breezily. Bobby slapped him upside the head.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"You coming to dinner, mad scientist?" asked Fic, putting her head in the door, "Or are you gonna wait for the lighting to strike, giving life to your hideous unnatural creation, bwahaha?"

Kerryn straightened up from where she had been carefully dispensing the extract of yuck that hopefully contained Croatoan virus into a succession of cultures, and winced at the twinges in her back. "Ow. What time is it?" It was dark outside; she looked at her watch. "Shit!"

"Got tangled up in your work, huh?" grinned Fic.

"It's not that," said Kerryn, getting up to slip out of her 'lab gown' (actually a maternity smock in a rather fetching buttercup yellow) and wash her hands, "But usually I don't get to lose track of time; Todd comes straight here after school. That should've been hours ago!" She looked around anxiously.

"Hey, don't worry," Fic reassured her, "He's probably got caught up at the metal shop, or he's running feral with Dean's pack – he knows not to wander off, and even if he did, one of the look-outs would see him."

"I know, but… look, it's a Mom thing," Kerryn said sheepishly, "I'll just go find him, then I'll be right there."

"If he isn't in the mess, stuffing his face already," Fic suggested. "That's a kid thing."

Kerryn headed for the mess, and quickly ascertained that her son wasn't there. She headed for their cabin, but he wasn't there either. Squelching the stab of panic, she was headed back to the mess to raise the alarm when she caught sight of him heading in the same direction, accompanied by Lottie.

"Todd!"

The way her son stopped dead, turned slowly, and smiled instantly had her attention: it was the posture of a child who Had Done Something.

"Hi, Mom," he offered.

"Where have you been?"

"I've been, uh," he waved a hand back in the direction of the fence, "Over there."

She followed the direction of his gaze; it led to the small hut. "Over there?" she gave him The Mom Look. "Why would you be over there?"

"I was just, you know," his eyes slid sideways and he shuffled his feet, "Over there. Talking to Andrew."

"Andrew doesn't talk, Todd," Kerryn told him sternly.

"Maybe not," he answered immediately, "But I can still talk to him."

She narrowed her eyes, giving him her best Momface #3® ( I Know You've Done Something And I Will Find Out What ). "Todd, you know I will be more angry about lying than about anything you're likely to have done. Now, whatever it was, I want to know…"

Todd glanced back at the hut, guilt writ large all over his face.

She gave him Momface #6® (Speak The Truth, Offspring, Or Live To Regret It).

"She was frightened!" he blurted out, "Everybody was chasing her, and she was so frightened!"

"What?" Kerryn gawped at him.

"She was scared!" Todd went on anxiously, "And she needed somewhere to hide, where nobody would find her!"

"Who? Who's hiding?" demanded Kerryn.

"Mrs Eggity!" Todd almost wailed, "I had to hide Mrs Eggity, so I…"

"You put a chicken in a feral werewolf's lair?" shrieked Kerryn, "Todd, we need that chicken for the lab…" the implication dawned on her. "Oh – My – GOD – you… you opened the _door_? Please tell me you didn't go in..."

"You're not gonna experiment on Mrs Eggity!" he shouted back.

"Huh? No! No!" Kerryn scrubbed a hand over her face. "Todd, nobody wants to experiment on Mrs Eggity! We just want to check if she's sick, and take a swab from her nose!"

"Sick?" Todd repeated doubtfully.

"Fic thinks she might have, like, a chicken cold," Kerryn explained. "She'll be fine," she went on hurriedly, "But if we can just get a swab from her nose, it might help us with our stuff in the lab."

He glared at her suspiciously. "You won't hurt her?"

"No, all we want to do is touch a swab to her nose."

"Sam tried to jump on her," he recalled accusingly.

Kerryn sighed. "Sam takes his swabbing far too seriously," she conceded, "But it doesn't have to be a big performance. So, why don't you go have dinner, and I'll," she glanced uneasily at the hut, "I'll go and get Mrs Eggity, and take her back to her proper home, where she can be in her own nesting box. She'll be more comfortable there."

"You promise you won't hurt her?" pleaded Todd.

"Not a single feather," said Kerryn firmly. "I'll take her back to the coop, then go and get Fic and Garth to make sure she's okay."

"I had her on the bus," Todd told her, "In her box, and she wasn't scared then, she just sat there. I thought, maybe if she had Andrew to watch her, she wouldn't be scared. I mean, he keeps the chickens and the rabbits safe too, on the bus, so I don't think he'd mind."

"I guess not," Kerryn made herself smile, trying not to imagine what would happen if you put a sane canine in with a flapping chicken at the best of times, "So, you go eat. Wash your hands first!"

She watched to make sure he did what he was told, then carefully made her way to the hut. She put a hand on one of the walls.

"Hello?" she called quietly. "Hello? Are you in there?"

There was only silence, then the quiet clucking of a contented chicken.

"Andrew, I…" she paused. "It's… It's me. Kerryn. I, uh, I need to get that chicken. It's important."

There was still no sound except for clucking.

"The thing is, we're trying to come up with something to stop the Croatoan virus," she continued, "I'm a biologist – a molecular biologist – and we're running some tests to see if we can work something out to make it stop…"

She put her ear to the wall, listening for anything at all.

"Look, I'm… I'm sorry for, you know," she said, "Cracking up on you, a few weeks ago. It all just kind of…" she hesitated, wondering if he was even in there.

She looked back towards the mess, but Mrs Eggity was really important, so, taking a deep breath, she walked around the hut to the door on the fence side. Lifting a hand, she knocked lightly.

"Andrew? Are you, uh, are you in?"

The handle set in the rough-sawn timber door turned easily, so she pushed the door open.

* * *

So, what happens next? Is Andrew sitting, communing with Mrs Eggity? Is Andrew asleep, playing dead? Is Andrew out? If so, does Andrew come in? Or should she just grab the chicken and run? Which 1974 Weight Watchers recipe card creation should he serve to visitors? (I'm sorry, I'm utterly obsessed with the complete incomprehensibility of those recipes. Whoever devised them was clearly smoking some pretty potent stuff.)

Send reviews, because Reviews are the Unexpected Doughnuts After The Amusing Chicken Chase Of Life!


	20. Chapter 20

Aaaaaargh! Ulfric is nibbling meeeeeeeeee!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

The hut was dark; the only light was the dim illumination that found its way through the door and a few gaps in the walls from the moon, and the few outdoor lights that had been connected to the newly commissioned power supply. It looked unfinished, perhaps a storage shed that was never completed after it was claimed as a retreat.

"Um, hello?" Kerryn said uncertainly, pushing the door. A scent, not unpleasant, like that of a house with healthy dogs living in it, permeated the small structure. "Are you in here?"

There was no reply, and no slavering monster came leaping out to maul her. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed the door all the way open.

The hut had raw walls and a bare earth floor. In the dim light, she saw Mrs Eggity – the hen had scratched herself out a small depression, and was sitting contentedly, clucking quietly to herself.

"Oh, Mrs Eggity," she sighed, stepping into the hut and moving quietly to where the chicken was settled, "You won't believe the shenanigans you've caused."

She reached down to pick up the chicken, but something caught her eye. A couple of pieces of card, wedged into a crosspiece in the boarding of the wall. Leaving the chicken, she crouched to examine them.

They weren't pieces of card, she realised; they were photos. The lack of light made it difficult to see, but she was reluctant to touch them. The moon emerged from the ragged wisps of cloud scudding past it, and the pale illumination enabled her to see them as her eyes adjusted.

The first one was a picture of the young werewolf Sabine, younger than she was now, and an older boy, obviously taken from Before. She didn't recognise him, and wondered if that was Sabine's brother. Connor, she remembered, his name was Connor. Kerryn couldn't help but smile; even as a teenager, he was obviously growing into a handsome man, and she felt a small stab of sadness that such a youngster should be snuffed out before he'd even really got started.

The other photo was older, and more dog-eared, the colour fading. It depicted a man… no, she realised, it was a woman, and, well, she wasn't sure exactly what else; it wore a collar and was on a leash, which suggested that it was a dog, but it looked… wrong. It was a huge, roach-backed monster, heavily muscled in the front end, its large head showing bearlike teeth as it snarled at the camera. Perhaps, if somebody had tried to cross a German Shepherd with a shark and a razorback boar and a chainsaw, that's what the result would look like. The woman was, frankly, no oil painting either; she was heavily built, and the face that had not been attractive to start with was heavily scarred down one side.

"Ronnie," she breathed, staring at the photo, "You must be Ronnie." The marked face stared back at her with the self-assured half-smile of a predator. After a moment, she went back to the other photo, and couldn't help but smile again; Connor had taken after his mother, she saw, and the muscular build and strong jaw looked damned fine on him. "He is Connor, isn't he?" she said to the photo. "I hope you were proud of him. They're not your eyes, though. They're like his sister's. Did they get that from their father?"

She turned her attention back to the chicken, but noticed a small metallic glint in the corner as she did so. Curious, she went to investigate.

There were two things there. One was a knife that had some peculiar etchings in the blade and the handle; it looked so dangerous that she didn't even want to touch it, so she didn't. It was sitting on top of a crumpled piece of paper, apparently weighting it down. In the dimness, she could read the smudgy text: it read simply _**thank you**_, in a bold decorative font.

Next to the paper under the knife, fallen to the earthen floor, was something small, something barely noticeable. Carefully, she pulled it from the dirt.

It was a silver chain, simple and yet elegant in its design, a beautiful piece of jewellery. What would a werewolf be doing with silver, she wondered, marvelling at the beauty of the small plain necklace – was it on the floor for a reason? No, she decided, if a werewolf was keeping something silver, it was important. She picked it up, and felt along the wall until she found a nail head that sat proud of the surface near the photos. That would do; she hung the necklace from it, somehow feeling happier to see it off the floor, and glinting in the light.

"Come on, then, Mrs Eggity," she said to the chicken, picking the hen up, "We'd best get out of here before the tenant gets back; neither of us would be more than a couple of mouthfuls for him."

She turned to leave, but as she stepped across the threshold, a shadow fell across her. Startled, she looked up.

"Like something out of a fairy story, isn't it?" said the young woman who stood watching her, smiling. "The faithful dog who pines away after the death of his beloved mistress."

"I think it might be a bit more than that," replied Kerryn, finding that she was annoyed at the flippant description of what was obviously a deeply felt grief.

"Fuck me if I can work out what anyone would see in her," shrugged the woman. "Have you met her? Ugly as Lucifer's dick, tear your head off as soon as look at you, not completely right in the head. As mad as her dogs."

"They were married!" Kerryn snapped, "Pair-bonded. They have children."

"Child," the other woman corrected her casually. "They have child. Singular. One's dead."

Kerryn scowled at the tone. "I'll just take Mrs Eggity back," she muttered.

"Oh, don't go yet!" the other woman said playfully, grabbing her shoulder roughly, "I want somebody to talk to!"

Kerryn felt a sudden anger rise; she was tired, her son's absence had frightened her, and the young woman practically making jokes about people dying pushed her buttons. She wrenched her arm away. "What makes you think I want to talk to you?" she snapped.

"Well, I don't really care whether _you _want to talk," the woman smirked, "But _I_ do, and that's all I care about."

Kerryn was about to shoot back something about callous selfishness when the other woman's eyes flashed black. Kerryn let out a little shriek, and dropped Mrs Eggity. The hen squawked, and scuttled away.

"Oh, don't go," the demon simpered, grabbing Kerryn's arm hard enough to bruise, "Don't try to run, I hate watching fat chicks fun, it's embarrassing. Oh, and don't yell for help – do you know, without modern western surgery, a complicated compound fracture of the arm is pretty much guaranteed to be fatal?"

"What… what do you want?" quavered Kerryn, wincing at the pain in her arm.

"Just what I said, Tubby," the demon grinned. "I want to talk. About the amazing little set-up you've got here. That fence? Nice work. Well warded. Done by somebody who knows what they're doing. It's taken me ages to get through. Who did it?"

"I… don't know," Kerryn let out a squeak as the demon twisted her arm. "I don't know! I only got here a few days ago!"

"Don't play dumb, Tubby," the demon suddenly hissed, pushing up her sleeve, "You've been here long enough for an anti-possession tattoo to heal. Come on, you've only got two arms to break, I can't hang around here all night – who did the warding, and why? What's going on here that's so important somebody wants to keep demons out?"

"Who wouldn't?" gasped Kerryn, "If you're going to come in here and threaten to break people's arms?"

"Hmmmm, good point," conceded the demon, "But I think there's more to it than that. Want me to give you a prompt? If the sad puppy is here, then the Winchesters are here. And they're up to something. And I think His Grace will want to know about it. And I think," super-human strength twisted Kerryn's arm until she thought she was hearing small bones pop, "That you'd better start giving me details before I pull your fucking arm right off…"

There wasn't even a warning rumble; the large grey shape dropped silently from the roof of the hut to the ground behind the demon. As frozen with terror as she was, Kerryn saw the barest curl of the lip, and got the message.

_Duck_

Gritting her teeth against the agony in her arm, Kerryn crouched as far as she could.

A long arm came smashing down on the demon's arm, and this time the sound of bones breaking was clearly audible. As the werewolf roared in rage, the demon let go of Kerryn, who fell to the ground, and clumsily crawled out of the way. She let out a shriek as a gout of blood flew from the raking claws that nearly took the head clean off the possessed meatsuit.

Letting out a screech of anger that gurgled out of its ruined throat, the demon dodged a couple more blows, its partially detached head moving unnaturally. The werewolf pressed the attack as the demon hit back, not even having to touch the wolf, then extricated something from its clothing with its good arm. It was a small flask of something, Kerryn saw, and the vicious thing flung the contents at the werewolf, hitting him in the face and chest.

Andrew's legs buckled as he let out a yelping scream, but he staggered back to his feet, shaking his head, and lurched after the demon.

"Andrew!" shrieked Kerryn, pulling herself to her feet. The demon snarled, and waved a hand at her. The strange force that hit her lifted her clean off her feet and threw her back into the hut, where she landed with a graceless thump on the hard floor. She flailed around blindly, trying to get her bearings, and her hand closed on something cold.

"Well, I really would have liked to stay and chat," the demon sneered, as the wounded werewolf staggered and snarled, "But there's something reeeeeally interesting going on here, and the Duke will be so grateful to me for the information, so, why don't I just finish you off, then by on my way? I'll leave the meatsuit for you lot to clean up – it was getting kind of funky anyway."

Taking a moment to gloat proved to be the demon's undoing. As it raised a hand to deliver the coup de grace, Kerryn staggered out of the hut, half running and half falling, and sank the knife blade into the demon's leg.

The meatsuit's expression was one of almost comical surprise as the demon batted ineffectually at the knife. Kerryn stared dazedly at the scene before her, the collapsing, wailing demon and the werewolf pawing at its face. Her lab scientist's brain suddenly took over – some sort of acid attack? – as her eye fell on one of the clusters of fire buckets that were all over the camp consisting of mostly wooden buildings. She scrambled to scoop one up, and tottered as close to the werewolf as she dared.

"Andrew!" she barked sharply. In surprise, he turned in her direction. She let him have the whole bucket in the face.

The demon managed one more invisible blow that threw her backwards, then she heard running feet and shouting, and hands we grabbing for her, and as she started flailing at them, an anxious voice behind her yelled "It's me! It's Sam! Kerryn, it's Sam!"

Sam dragged her backwards away from the scene, as several dogs shot past her, and latched onto the demon with their hell-teeth, eyes glowing red. The demon shrieked and howled, an unearthly sound, as Dean darted in towards it and buried another knife to the hilt in the demon's chest.

Kerryn heard Sam shouting at her to close her eyes as he pulled her to the ground while the demon burned out from the inside.

The sudden silence afterwards was almost deafening.

Sam rolled over, coughed and sat up. "You okay?" he asked.

Kerryn nodded her head, paused, then shook it. "I… it… demon." Her mouth fell open. The entire episode hadn't lasted more than sixty seconds, but she felt like she'd just run a marathon. Absently, she dabbed at the blood spattering her. "It's okay, it's not mine," she said vaguely. "Mostly, I think."

"Kerryn, it's Fic," the nun's no-nonsense voice cut in, "I think we should get you back to the med centre and have a look at you. Make sure none of it is yours. Can you walk?"

"What happened here?" demanded Dean in a quiet but stern voice, bending to pull the knife from the demon's leg and looking thoughtfully at it, then at Kerryn.

"Can it wait until I've examined her?" asked Fic, "If she's concussed, getting that brain back on deck takes priority."

Kerryn gasped as if suddenly remembering something. "Andrew!" she yelped, "She threw acid at Andrew!"

"Acid?" Dean turned to the werewolf, who was leaning against the wall of his hut, and breathing heavily.

"I got it," RJ's voice came from the darkness, then he appeared in the pool of light, gingerly holding the small flask the demon had used. "Phew! Silver! And wolfsbane, I think. Whoever it was, they scouted us out, and came prepared."

Dean approached his den-sire, whuffing quietly in concern. The wolf shrugged him off impatiently, then stopped, and peered briefly in Kerryn's direction, before heading back into his hut. Dean proffered the knife, but Andrew just rumbled, and shut the door.

"Silver nitrate, I'm guessing," Sam wrinkled his nose as he caught the scent of the flask. "Good thing he's still compos mentis enough to grab a fire bucket."

"That was me," Kerryn piped up as Fic helped her to her feet. "In the event of exposure to a corrosive substance, flush the eyes with water for fifteen minutes, or until advised to stop by a physician or medical practitioner."

Sam gawped at her. "You… you threw a bucket of water over… him?" he asked.

Kerryn looked confused. "Well, you don't have eyewash stations," she shrugged.

Dean strode over to Kerryn. "What happened here?" he asked. "A demon got in. What happened?"

"Dean, I really think this should wait," Fic told him.

"This is important, Fic," Dean said, "We know they're suspicious, and they're looking for us. We need to know if they're planning something."

"Don't you dare pull your Alpha male crap on me with one of my patients, _little _brother," Fic growled.

"No, he's right," Kerryn ventured, carefully testing her bruised arm to see if it was still responding to the helm, "The demon said something about it taking days to get through the wards. And it wanted to know what we were doing here, what was so carefully warded. It mentioned His Grace. The Duke. And… it knew about Ronnie."

The Winchesters exchanged a look.

"So, I'll come with you, Fic," she went on, "Because my arm really hurts – the demon tried to twist it off, so, can you fix me a sling or something?"

"Sure," nodded Fic, "And thanks to Castiel's pharma patch, I can give you some pretty good painkillers, but I suggest you take those after dinner, when you're in your cabin…"

"No," Kerryn shook her head, "Give me a sling, then get somebody to send a sandwich or something over to the lab building. I've got things to do. Sam, go ask Garth NICELY to help you get a swab from Mrs Eggity – I think she took off for the coop – and bring it straight over."

"It would help us to figure out what we might be up against if you could give us a full account of what happened here," Dean said.

"I will. You can come and talk to me while I work." She turned to face him squarely. "If they're looking for us, we gotta make this work, if it's going to work, fast," she stated. "Could you ask my minions to meet me at the lab in half an hour?"

Dean burst out laughing. "It shall be as you command, O Evil Overlord," he made an extravagant reverence, then handed her the knife she'd stabbed the demon with. "Here."

Kerryn looked at the knife as if it was something distasteful. "That's Andrew's," she said, "I don't like knives."

"But you managed to stick that one into a demon," Sam pointed out.

"Good thing, too," added Dean. "You see, Kerryn, this is a very unusual knife. Not just beautiful workmanship; it's a demon killer. Stopped the bitch from smokin' out, and heading back Downstairs to tattle on us. If you hadn't done that, we would all be, as of right now, royally screwed."

"Yeah, but…" Kerryn's mouth worked for a moment, "I was scared, and I didn't know what I was doing!"

"Shit," muttered Fic, "If that's the case, how dangerous would she be with a bit of training?"

"It's the whole Evil Overlord vibe," nodded Sam. "Evil, with a capital eev, as Fergus would say."

"But I don't want it!" Kerryn protested.

"You don't get a choice," Dean told her, plonking the hilt firmly into her unresisting hand, "He said to give it to you. You got a problem with that, go take it up with him."

"Oh." She looked down at the weapon in her hand. It even felt dangerous. "Um, could somebody ask Fergus to make tea?"

"It would be my pleasure," Sam grinned cheerfully. "In fact, I'll bring you a sandwich, and come over with him. Because that knife? It was tested on him several times during R&D. He thinks it got blown up. The expression on his face when he sees it again will be fucking priceless."

* * *

Good grief, is the end in sight? Onward, Ulfric! Feed the plot bunny reviews, because they are the Amusingly Exploding Demons In The Yard Of Life!


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

"Isn't this sort of thing meant to happen to ships?" asked Frankie dubiously.

"Hey, you should've seen the party when we got our FACS machine," gushed Kerryn, "It was cheap champagne and suspicious roast avian when the grant came through for that one."

"For a fax machine?" Frankie blinked. "You science types really don't get out much, do you?"

"No, no, FACS," Kerryn explained, "Fluorescence-Activated Cell Sorter. Very whizz-bang. Very expensive. Definitely a good excuse for a long lunch. Or at least, for a couple of sore heads, and a couple of cases of gastro," she shrugged, eyeing the fizzy orange drink dubiously. "This is safe to drink, isn't it?"

"Castiel reports that it's safe for humans to drink," confirmed Sam, peering at his own glass, "But whether it's desirable to drink, well, that's another matter."

"Chuck assured me that it's his best batch yet," shrugged Kelly.

"That does not reassure me in the slightest," muttered Kevin, "I'll stick to the flat stuff, thanks."

"I'm not sure if it's a mark of twisted genius, or sad desperation, that somebody would use orange juice as the base of a fizzy drink," mused Fic. "Or just classic Chuck."

"Actually, it's not too bad," opined Dean, knocking back the last of his drink and refilling it.

"Comin' from somebody who's prepared to drink the sort of crap you will, that's hardly a ringin' endorsement," Bobby pointed out.

"An observation about the colour of pots and kettles comes to mind, darling," said Crowley, "You know, if this crazy scheme of yours works, and we somehow figure out a way to stomp those two pompous arses back down into the disgusting slime whence they came, the first thing, the very first thing I do, will be to pop over to the east coast, and pick up a nice Speyside single malt. Or maybe the Orkneys, they might just have held out better there. No, wait, if they have, they'll have drunk their way through the entire stock of Highland Park by now, what with the population being half Scot and half Norwegian, it's only to be expected."

"If I might have your attention," called Beverly, rapping on his own glass, "On this momentous occasion, I call upon Dean, our Fearless Leader here at Camp Singer Salvage, to say a few words."

There was a smattering of applause as Dean took centre stage.

"Well, uh, I've never been asked to open anything bigger than a bottle before," he began, "But, given that this is the result of hard work by Dale, and Arjan, and some sterling scouting by RJ, and very careful appliance wrangling by Tiem and Zan, it gives me great pleasure – should I be doing the royal wave, or something while I say this bit? – yeah, well, it gives me great pleasure to, uh, declare this autoclave, er, open." He paused. "God bless it, and all who… sterilise with it."

With great ceremony, Beverly shut the door on the steel cabinet, spun down the lock, and hit a button. With an ominous gurgling from the reservoir, the autoclave began a sterilisation cycle. The small gathering cheered.

"We'll really need this," Beverly intoned, "If the Evil Overlord is intent on keeping up the pace we've been working at."

"I'm not," Kerryn said, "We need to step it up. We're not getting anything that looks useful turning up. And I got no way of verifying what the problem is – those enzymes could just be too old – so our only option is to keep trying with more samples."

"She's a slave driver," complained Frankie.

"She's the Evil Overlord," Kevin pointed out, "And we're minions. It's kind of her job."

"So, drink up, minions," sighed Sam, knocking back his own glass of Chuck's strange cross between orangeade and window cleaner, "And then noses back to the grindstone. Or, swabs back to the medium."

"I'll be turning the compost," announced Crowley. "That's just for your information. If anybody wants me, I won't actually respond."

"Before you do that, go make tea," ordered Bobby. "So, how's it goin'?" he asked Kerryn quietly.

"Like I said, slowly," she sighed, glancing at the whiteboard, which was a mess of her incomprehensible scribbles, diagrams and gene maps. "This is real bucket biology: put the two samples together in a suitable host, hope like hell you get some recombination, then hope like hell that new virus has the qualities we want. Frankly," she threw a dubious glance at the improvised containment where Frankie and newly-recruited Sabine were setting up more testing samples of tissue taken from Croatoan zombies, "I really hate that bit. It creeps me the hell out. The time I had to dissect out adrenal glands from still-warm chunks of fat thrown to me by guys off the abattoir killing floor I nearly threw up, but this…"

"Is there anythin' else we can go out and scrounge for?" asked Dean.

"Not that's going to be useable here," Kerryn grinned ruefully. "I thought about other mutagens – chemicals, or a rad source – but we got no way of getting hold of them, I've talked to Simon about it, and we're more likely to poison ourselves. UV radiation is a possibility, but without a meter, it's impossible to know what the output of a lamp is."

"What exactly do those things do?" Dean wanted to know.

"They, well, they induce changes in the DNA," Kerryn told him. "I could give you the lecture on DNA repair, base excision or nucleotide excision or strand breaks or nicks or mismatch or adduct formation…"

"Can I have the crib notes version?" he suggested. "And keep your voice down, I don't want Sam to hear this, he'll come in his pants."

"I heard that," Sam turned around from his careful inoculating and gave his brother a Bitchface #13™ (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust).

"Well, they induce damage in the genes, which then get fixed, and put back together," Kerryn continued. "When that happens, sometimes bits get changed around, so what you end up with is a different version of what you started with. Warped, usually it gets taken apart, and put back together not quite right."

"Turned into somethin' else that aint quite right," mused Bobby. "Taken apart, and put back together wrong, huh?"

"There's more to it than that," Kerryn seemed to be somewhat intellectually outraged at the simplification, "But yeah, that's basically it. Very basically it. As in, I think if that ever leaves this room, somebody somewhere will take away my scientist card."

"In my experience, young lady, 'basically' can have a lot goin' for it when you aint got anythin' better to go on," chortled Bobby, putting down his glass and wandering away.

"Could you possibly spare Sam, Frankie or Sabine?" Dean asked her. "I need noses on patrol, and not just dogs. We've picked up demons around the camp."

"Since the Flight Of Mrs Eggity?" she queried.

"Yeah," he confided, "I don't want to worry people, but there's definitely snooping goin' on. So far, we've managed to find 'em, and stop 'em before they run back to His Assholeness, or Her Douchebaggery, but they only gotta be lucky once. Their scouts keep goin' MIA, they'll work it out, sooner or later, by subtraction."

"Well, if demons find this place, then it doesn't matter whether we're making progress or not, does it," she reasoned, "So, leave me one, if you have jobs for the others to do."

"Great," he smiled, "Send 'em out as soon as you can."

"If you need another demon-killing knife, there's that one," she gestured to the small desk she used in the corner of the lab building; it peeked out from under a pile of paper.

"It was given to you," he told her, "Keep it here."

"What for?" she demanded, "I can't use it! Can't you take it, and give it back to Andrew for me?"

"He can't use it," Dean explained, "Having the dexterity to use a knife is something that Old North werewolves rarely manage. Sabine can; we think she inherited it. Sam sorta can, because he works at it, and he was taught by the best. And Ronnie could. She made that knife."

"Yeah? So, how did she manage it?" asked Kerryn, curious.

The smile on Dean's face was sad. "Because she was Ronnie," he answered. "She was… special. Even for a werewolf. She could do things, manage things, that shouldn't have been possible."

"She could knock you on your ass," grinned Sam, carrying a load of used glassware to the washing up area.

"She could put her teeth on your neck without breaking a sweat," Dean reminded his little brother. "Do your dishes, Francis, then I need you and Sabine on patrol." Without a further word, Sam scuttled to comply. "Huh. If only he'd always do what he was told."

"Good luck with that," huffed Kerryn, turning back to her whiteboard, "Okay, so, are we ready to grow up the next batch of swabs, because…"

There was a clatter of dogs, boots and raised voices at the door – Kerryn went to investigate.

Bobby stood at the bottom of the step, grinning up at her. "I found you somethin' that can warp stuff and put it back together wrong!" he announced cheerfully.

"I protest at being man-handled like this!" complained Crowley. "Madam, if you put him up to this, I wish to register my displeasure!"

"Shut up, Mr Mutagen," growled Bobby. "Now, demons are the masters of ruinin' things, and puttin' 'em back together in a twisted way, so I figure, it's gotta be worth a try, right?"

Kerryn looked at Crowley, quivering with indignation, small pieces of compost falling from his overalls. "Uh, do you think we could autoclave him first?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"It smells dreadful in here," Crowley whined.

"It's the autoclave, I'm afraid," Beverly apologised, "But doing the medium this way will give us better results, the E.O. says."

"Can't we open the windows?" he complained, "That would help. And it's uncomfortably warm in here."

"That's because you look like a kid wrapped up to go out and play in the snow," Bobby rolled his eyes. Whereas the other minions had improvised lab gowns from a series of garments including oversized shirts and dresses, Crowley had swathed himself from head to foot in protective garmentry, including a hat, a face mask, pillow cases tied over his shoes, and a pair of heavy rubber gloves. "Seriously, Fergus, I've seen burqas that don't give as much coverage as that!"

"I don't want to be contaminated," muttered Crowley sullenly.

"This from the King of the Compost?" asked Fic incredulously.

"There's a demonic component to this thing, isn't there?" Crowley griped. "What if it makes me sick? What if it kills me? What if Frau Frankenstein here is actually making a biological anti-demon weapon?"

"Hmmmm, a bug that would wipe out any demon that set foot on the planet," mused Bobby, "Golly gee, wouldn't we all be upset about that, boo hoo. Our luck's not that good, ya idjit."

"It's blood-borne, Fergus," Kerryn told him, "And we're aiming for anti-Croat, so as long as you don't intentionally inject yourself with anything in here, you'll be fine."

"Mosquitoes!" Crowley yelped, "What about mosquitoes? Midges? Other blood-sucking pests?"

"I'll tell Ian you said that," grinned Kelly, "Next time I see him."

"Lice!"

"They'd have to eat our experiments first, which they won't do," Kerryn said, starting to sound exasperated. "And nobody's got lice, anyway, or we'd have had an eradication campaign."

"Fleas!"

"We do not have fleas in here," Kerryn went on, "I assure you, Fergus, there aren't any on the dogs, or we'd have had an eradication program for them, too…"

"Bedbugs!"

"Fergus, nobody sleeps in here!" she said emphatically.

"Well, you have pulled a couple of overnighters," Kelly pointed out. "But not in a bed," she added, as Kerryn glared at her.

"Bats! There could be vampire bats around!"

"They only come from South America!" snapped Kerryn. "You're being unreasonable, Fergus, look, all I want you to do is…"

"Leeches! What if leeches from the lake find their way up here?"

"Leeches? Leeches? Fergus, leeches live in water! Look, I think you might be over-thinking this…"

"What about a bird? What if a crazed bird gets in here? Haven't you watched any Alfred Hitchcock movies?"

Kerryn gawped at Crowley, then scowled, stomped over to her desk, and returned, powered by impatience, exasperation, and lack of sleep.

"Fergus, let me explain the situation here. I, the unprepared, assisted by the untrained, am trying to do the unlikely, with the unworkable, in a time frame that is unachievable. I am not trying to create an anti-demon weapon. I am not interested in killing you. However, if you don't stop whining like a med student in prac, I will take this knife, and make you sorry. I don't know how to use it, but I'm willing to bet that I could work out which end to stick into you for maximum effect. So don't worry about leeches, or bats, or rabid birds, because if you do not get with the program, the only blood you're going to lose will be when I stab you in the leg. Do you understand?"

Sam laughed. "See? I told you. That expression? Priceless."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"I feel like an idiot," mumbled Crowley resentfully on his third day of duty as a source of demonic radiation.

"You are an idiot, according to Bobby," confirmed Kelly. "Actually, you are an idiot, according to me, too."

"Yeah, I agree with that," beamed Fic.

"All those in favour of confirming that Fergus is an idiot, say 'Aye'," chirped Beverly, refilling the autoclave.

"What is this?" demanded Crowley as a chorus of 'Aye!'s ran around the room. "The Annual General Meeting of the Let's All Pick On Fergus Club?"

"I'd be so sad if we had to wait for a whole year to do that," mused Kelly.

"Just ignore them, Fergus," instructed Kerryn, "You're doing very well."

"I'm going cross-eyed," complained the King of Hell, moving on to stare at the next sample with his most intimidating I Am King Of Hell stare.

"That must mean that you're doing a good job, then," Kerryn encouraged, "Putting a lot of oomph into your stare."

"How do we even know this is doing anything?" griped Fergus.

"Well, if you get bored, there's always the compost," Kerryn pointed out brightly. He sighed, and turned back to his staring.

"Exactly what is the unit of demonic stare radiation?" asked Fic. "Discombobulations per minute? Tantrum per square inch? So many snides per second?"

"I hate you all," Crowley muttered. "This one's done."

"Put it in the incubator cupboard, for Kevin to test tomorrow," pronounced Kerryn. "Make sure it's labelled, and transfer the paperwork with it."

"I haven't finished testing yesterday's samples yet," Kevin said wistfully, "I'm really better at electronic stuff."

"Just keep working your way through them," Kerryn said, trying not to let tiredness leak into her voice.

"It's yukky," Kevin complained, screwing up his face at the piece of Croatoan tissue that was his test bed.

"So is getting over-run by Croats and torn to bits and eaten, or getting attacked by demons and being horribly tortured to death," Kerryn said smilingly. "So, get to it, faithful minion."

"Today's delivery!" came the yell from outside; Kerryn recognised RJ's voice, and she groaned. That announcement could only mean one thing.

"Found this one sneakin' around outside," he told her, indicating the headless Croat zombie at his feet. "There's a bit of a hole in the chest where Dad stabbed it to kill the demon, but the rest of it looks okay."

"Oh, God," sighed Kerryn, "Yeah, bring it in, you know where. I'll just get my kit."

"You want help?" he asked brightly.

"Sure, why not," she shrugged, "Although, it might be better if you go get your cousin, I'm really pleased that you're willing to help, RJ, but the last one you did was…"

She stopped. RJ had already shifted to his wolf form, reached down, and punched into the zombie's chest, pulling out the sternum and flaying open the rib cage to expose the lungs. Reaching down, he took hold of one organ in each paw, and pulled.

"That's… great," she made herself smile. "Much better this time. Well done. Just hold that thought – and those lungs – and I'll go get a tray. And possibly a puke bag."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Is it absolutely necessary that you do that here?" asked Crowley.

"Not squeamish are you, Your Hellside Highness?" asked Fic, carefully slicing into the lung.

"I just wish to make absolutely sure that it's truly necessary for us to take a daily delivery of fresh Croatoan zombie," sniffed Crowley.

"They smell worse the day after," Kevin pointed out reasonably.

"We gotta test this stuff, and the fresher the test tissue, the better," Kerryn told him, placing a piece gingerly onto a tray. "We want this thing to be airborne, so looking for some sort of reaction with the lungs is the most rational place to start." _Although I have no idea what we should even be looking for_, she added in the privacy of her own head.

"Next time somebody releases an apocalyptic virus, can it be an electronic one?" pleaded Kevin, trying not to look too closely as he carefully arrayed a spot of each culture on the chunks of tissue in front of him. "Yeah, it could wipe out life as we know it, and billions could die, but at least it might smell better."

"I don't know why we're even bothering," moaned Crowley, "I need to take a break, or borrow somebody else's meatsuit, the eyes on this one are refusing to focus."

"As soon as we've processed this batch, we can take a break," decided Kerryn, "Might be a good time to get something to eat." She looked at her watch. "Damn, it's nearly dinner time. Okay, we'll finish for now, then…"

"Kerryn," Kevin interrupted, "Come and look at this."

Kerryn put down the tray she was holding and went to Kevin's side. He pointed to one of the chunks of red mess in front of him. "There. Look."

As she watched, a small spot of liquid on the piece of lung bubbled, then fell in on itself and turned murky dark brown, as if it had been splattered with strong acid.

"Do that one again," she instructed.

Kevin obliged with the same sample. The test tissue bubbled, then blackened, once more.

She scrabbled at the notes recording the various combinations they'd tried. "Mrs Eggity," she mused, "This is from Mrs Eggity's swab. Mrs Eggity, plus Fergus's staring, plus Croat virus, equals…" she pointed to the sample that looked like the thousands of others they'd prepared. "That."

"What is it?" asked Fic.

"I don't know, yet," Kerryn replied, changing her gloves, "But I intend to find out. Go get dinner, I'll set up a subculture of this one, and see you there. And tell the Grumpy Old Men we might have a hit."

* * *

Yes, I do know what it's like to be on the killing floor of an abattoir to collect adrenal glands from enormous chunks of still-warm and still-liquid cow fat collected fresh from the carcass. When I wasn't collecting buckets of blood. It's amazing I didn't throw in science, and go into something less physically odious, like law; at least lawyers only stink figuratively.

Send reviews, because they are the Great Big Adrenal Glands That Will Give You A Nice Big Cell Yield In The Ice Bucket Of Life!*

*If chunks of cow guts don't do it for you, think of doughnuts instead. Doughnuts. Nice, fluffy, delicious yeast-raised doughnuts. Maybe glazed, maybe powdered, maybe filled with jam. Maybe iced. Maybe chocolate. Whom you eat them off is up to you. Put down a drop sheet if you think it's going to get mucky.


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